


Burning Snow and Purple Dawn

by wyanmai



Series: Burning Snow and Purple Dawn [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Ashara Dayne is such a mom, Death, Dorne, F/F, F/M, Fluff, Friendship, Gen, Good Parent Ned Stark, Grief/Mourning, Intrigue, Love at First Sight, Male-Female Friendship, Murder, Political Shenanigans, Post-War, Rebellion, Revenge, Romance, Sibling Bonding, Smut, Stillbirth, Suicidal Thoughts, When in doubt blame Bloodraven, well maybe not the best parent Ned Stark
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2021-03-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:34:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 34
Words: 147,057
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27236584
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wyanmai/pseuds/wyanmai
Summary: Childbirth is dangerous. When Catelyn dies after Robb Stark's birth, Ned is left free to marry Ashara Dayne, the woman he fell in love with at Harrenhal. A different lady for Winterfell leads to a different fate for the realm. Main timeline AU with extensive Robert's Rebellion prologue chapters and plenty of Dorne. See second fic in series for Character Glossary
Relationships: Arya Stark/Gendry Waters, Ashara Dayne & Oberyn Martell, Ashara Dayne/Ned Stark, Lynesse Hightower & Jaime Lannister, Lynesse Hightower & Tyrion Lannister, Nymeria Sand/Arya Stark, Theon Greyjoy/Arya Stark
Series: Burning Snow and Purple Dawn [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2108049
Comments: 849
Kudos: 694





	1. Prelude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please see the Character Glossary (part 2 in this series) for an ongoing list of characters, including birth years. 
> 
> I have a very long story planned, and most of it will take place when AGOT starts, but these first few chapters will be a prologue of sorts set right after Robert takes the throne.  
> I won't be writing in this metaphorical bard-like language again, I promise. If I did it awkwardly, I apologize, but it just felt right for this first prelude chapter.

For near three centuries, dragon lords of old Valyria had ruled over the Seven Kingdoms. They came to Westeros on their beasts that blocked out the sun, pale hair flying, and with Fire and Blood they brought these lands to their knees.

Even that unbending kingdom, Dorne, finally accepted the dragons as their masters. Grand flew the years, like a star shooting across the night sky—years turned to decades, and decades to centuries.

Yet the Targaryens were but men, of flesh and bone, of vice and greed. First they lost their dragons, and then they lost their minds. Lords paramount began muttering, to themselves and to their friends, that perhaps it was time these kingdoms found a different house to place upon the Iron Throne.

Six and twenty decades after Aegon's Conquest, King Jaehaerys called upon his banners to suppress the rebellion of the Ninepenny Kings. Amid the smoke and blood of battle was forged a friendship of great lords—the stag, the falcon, the trout and the wolf.

The dragons gave them little power and less influence now, and the lords would reclaim their due. All agreed that the time was ripe for the stag to replace the Targaryens on the Iron Throne, for the lords of the Stormlands had dragon blood running through their veins.

For twenty years, the lords schemed and plotted—trained men, stocked weapons, braved winter, bore children, and forged an alliance armoured in marriage and friendship—while in the Red Keep, King Aerys was losing his mind.

The dragon prince was a man grown by then, and his wife was a Dornish princess, small and slight and delicate of build. He could be a better king—the great ruthless lion of the Rock had proclaimed as much—and supported by his white cloaked friends, the prince, too, plotted treason.

In the year of the false spring, Lord Whent invited the entire kingdom to his tourney at Harrenhal, and it was here that the dragon prince planned his own ascension to the Throne.

For months he planned and plotted with his bosom friends, and to seal the support of the lords, the Sword of the Morning offered the hand of his beautiful, laughing sister to the second son of the Winterfell wolf. The maid was heir to Starfall then—an ancient house, descended from kings—for the Dornish let their daughters rule just as their sons.

The dragon prince was to crown his wife the queen of love and beauty, and in the same breath announce her queen of the Seven Kingdoms. At this sign, the lords and white knights were to seize their mad king, and so the crown would land bloodlessly on Rhaegar's silver head.

But the alliance of the lords conspired behind the backs of both their king and their prince. They had different plans. Plans to push their young storm lord onto the Throne. They had men and arms and force to spare, and once the mad king was disposed, they would rise up with their forces of thousands and topple the new crown from the dragon prince's head.

And so it was—plot within plot, treason behind treason—but the quiet wolf knew nothing of it, save that his father would see him marry a Dornish maiden with purple eyes. At the opening feast at Harrenhal, he saw the glowing beauty of the girl who would soon be his betrothed, and felt himself frozen to the bench, though he longed to request a dance.

His brother the wild wolf laughed and laughed, then clapped him on the back and spoke to her on his behalf.

The maid from Starfall had been asked—by her gallant brother and by the dragon prince—to wed a northern wolf for the good of the realm. The Seven Kingdoms needed a new king, and it was within her power to play kingmaker this once. All she need do was say yes, and because she loved her brother, and loved her princess who would be queen, she came to Harrenhal to meet her betrothed.

They danced around the hall, the music lively and quick, and the poor quiet wolf landed time and again on the maiden's foot. Yet it bothered her not one whit, for he was earnest and his grey eyes kind, and when he praised not her beauty but her mind, she thought her heart might burst.

They fell in love amid the ruins of old Harrenhal, the quiet wolf and the Dornish maid, and each thanked their own gods for their fair fortune. In darkened alcoves and clearings hidden by trees, they whispered sweet words between them, and stole kisses as they opened their hearts.

 _I am enough,_ thought the quiet wolf, amazed that it was so. _She makes me feel that there is nothing wanting in me, that I need only be plain Ned, and that is enough for her._

Beneath the blanket of stars they joined in another dance, this one as old as man, and the quiet wolf told himself that it was no smear on his lady's honour, for she was soon to be his wife.

Yet all was not well, for the sweet winds of false spring were souring back to winter. Someone had told—someone always tells. The dragon prince came to suspect the lords' treachery. On the tourney's last day, as the triumphant prince rode before the royal stands, he did not crown his own pregnant wife the queen of love and beauty; did not announce his intentions and call his council to dispose his father.

Instead, he crowned the wolf maid with a wreath of winter roses, and all the lords and knights and smallfolk were silent with dread. The wild wolf howled with rage then, for how dare he dishonour his sister, who was promised to another? And how dare he tumble their careful plans? How did he know? Someone told. Someone always tells.

The quiet wolf watched with bleary eyes and knotted brow, for he could not understand what the prince meant to do, dishonouring his sister so. Yet the maid of Starfall understood, and she felt her heart tear in two, for the wolf lord of the north might be no friend to the prince, but foe.

No one spoke a word of their ruined plans—not the prince, not the lords. The king was still watching, and any change in the wind smelled like treason to the mad dragon. So the dragons left, the king to King's Landing, the prince to Dragonstone with his wife. And the lords left for their keeps, to lick their wounds, and test the waters of Rhaegar's suspicions.

The quiet wolf rode with the storm lord and the falcon, back up through the Mountains of the Moon, while the maiden attended her princess, whom pregnancy suited ill. Yet in five turns of the moon, the maid herself sailed home to Starfall, weeping bitter tears at her parting.

In own her womb had been a wolf pup growing, a babe who returned to the gods before she saw the lavender dawn. The Silent Sisters had cleaned her tiny bones, and the maiden built her a pyre on the Torrentine.

The winter winds rose, bitter and sharp. In the new year, news reached the wild wolf that the dragon prince had kidnapped his sister. Off he rode to demand her return—rode to his death and that of his father's—and the treasonous lords found a new cause to rise in arms against the dragons.

The quiet wolf had rallied his troops, and with the falcon, the new lord of Winterfell arrived at Riverrun. His father was burned, his brother strangled, and the dragons held his beloved sister. His father's bannermen had died at the mad king's hands, and the north would not forgive this tyranny. Duty won out over love.

He married his brother's betrothed—the Tully girl with the flaming hair—and prayed to his Old Gods that he might find peace from shame and guilt, though he knew there was no help for his drowning heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My version of Robert's Rebellion events are largely based on u/KingLittleFinger's 4-part Harrenhal Conspiracy post on Reddit. It's mindblowing and definitely my new headcanon, so if you have time, I strongly recommend a read.


	2. PROLOGUE I: She Did Her Duty

283 AC

_King’s Landing_

“Ned! Ned, wait! Wait!”

It was Jon Arryn’ voice that called to Ned as he crossed one of the little courtyards in Maegor’s Holdfast, forging headlong out of the Red Keep. For a moment, he considered ignoring Jon entirely, his rage still ice-cold and cutting, but his legs stopped of their own accord. He turned, armour clinking softly, and watched in silence as the only father he had left half ran to meet him.

“Please Jon. Don’t try to dissuade me. I cannot bear to be in this city, let alone in this castle, and surely Storm’s End must be relieved posthaste.” And Lyanna. The sooner Storm’s End was retaken, the sooner he could look for her.

He could not bear any of the men around him. Not Jaime Lannister, who slit the throat of the king he had sworn to protect. Not Tywin Lannister, who presented the mutilated bodies of a helpless woman and her babes as if he had done a service to the realm.

And least of all Robert, who had smiled at the bloodied children and declared them dragonspawn. They had been brothers for more than half his life, yet today Ned looked upon his face and saw a stranger.

 _Dragonspawn_. If Ned was right—and gods help them all if he was—is that what Robert would say of a child Lyanna carried? If Rhaegar has gotten her with child, the babe could already be months old by now. Like the little prince he had forced himself to see.

 _Dragonspawn_. He could even imagine it now: Lyanna screaming as Robert let Tywin Lannister’s beasts crush the skull of his niece or nephew.

He felt bile in his throat, sour and burning. Ned needed to leave this accursed place. The thought rose in his mind then, unbidden. _Perhaps Ashara had been right. This filthy city has the power to pollute the conscience._

But no, he must keep memories of Ashara from his mind now. He was married to another—had a duty to his new wife. Whatever love Ned had shared with Ashara Dayne, there was no place for it in the heart of Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.

 _“_ No, I do not intend to stop you, Ned,” said Jon, who had caught up to him now. Ned still said nothing, but Jon just handed him a roll of parchment, its blue seal still intact.

“I only wished to give you this.” He took Ned’s helm and gauntlets to free his hands. “A raven just arrived from Riverrun.”

Ned could not help his startled look then. Jon had sent out ravens from King’s Landing just yesterday, announcing Robert’s coronation. For news to arrive this urgently from Riverrun, and for him alone…

His hands were suddenly trembling with anticipation, his limbs soft as jelly. Four moons ago, he had received a similar missive, sealed in blue, with news that his new wife was carrying his child.

He had felt intoxicated then, his head swimming, drunk beyond drunk. His chest had swelled with sweet anticipation, for all that it was laced with the bitter aftertaste of finality. He was well and truly married to Catelyn Tully, and she would bear his children, and share his life. That boy who had fallen in love during those magical days at Harrenhal was no more, and he would never see laughing violet eyes again.

But this new letter—surely it was too soon. His mind spun as he tried to recall how many moons his mother had carried Benjen, but he had been barely four, and time still meant nothing back then. Shaking his head to clear it, Ned broke the trout-stamped seal and unfurled the parchment. 

_To my good-son:_

_I hope this raven finds you well and uninjured._

_Nine days ago, Catelyn took to early labor, and gave birth to your son. He is small, but the maester says he is strong and healthy, and will thrive with careful tending. My daughter asked that he be named Robb, after the new king. She remembered you saying you are like brothers, and she hoped the name would please you._

_Two days later, my daughter succumbed to childbed fever. She is with the gods now. Cat wished me to tell you that she was blessed to have known you for her husband, even for so short a time. Once I have laid my daughter to rest, I will ride to King’s Landing to swear fealty to the king. We will meet then to settle the upbringing of my grandson._

_You must forgive a grieving old man his curtness, for I know nought else to write you. May the Father keep you, and the Warrior aid you in your remaining endeavours._

_Hoster Tully_

When he had been two and ten, Ned had fallen violently ill after a ride through a storm in the Vale. In his fevered dreams, scenes of ordinary life overlapped with the strange and terrible, as if he looked out upon his life through tinted glass. He felt that sense of unreality now. He world seemed to spin, and he could not be certain that his legs would hold him upright.

His weight of his armour suddenly felt enough to crush in his chest as Robert had done to Rhaegar at the Trident, and for a moment Ned wondered if he were capable of continuing breath.

“Ned? What is it, son?”

Jon Arryn’s voice sounded again, cutting through his stifling haze, and like the little boy he’d once been, Ned reached out blindly for the man’s arm. A strong hand on his elbow steadied him, and Ned could say nothing, only hand Jon the parchment.

The next moment, Jon had pulled him down to one of the stone benches under an archway and loosened the straps on the side of his breastplate. The extra room to breathe helped clear his head, but now the grief and guilt were sharp and biting in his gut.

“I cannot express how sorry I am, Ned, truly. I understand this pain. I wish you do not have to know it.”

He was glad that Jon had not first congratulated him on his son, as a lesser man might have. He understood that Ned would not want to hear those words now.

Ned felt a warm palm over his own hand, and looked up into Jon Arryn’s kind blue eyes. Jon had suffered the bite of this grief more than once, he remembered distantly, and it was with this knowledge that he finally found his words.

“She was barely eighteen,” he choked out. “The maesters say it is more dangerous for a woman to carry a babe before she is eighteen. Perhaps, if I had waited—“

“How could you have waited? You did your duty, as she did hers. The marriage needed to be consummated, and you needed an heir. Would you rather have left your brother the only Stark remaining should something happen to you?”

“But at what cost, Jon? I barely knew her, but she was so full of life, and because of me, she—” She had been so bright, like a flame, now snuffed out as easily as one blows a candle. First his father, then his brother, and now Catelyn, who had been nearly a stranger, yet still his wife. Who would be next, Ned wondered. And the Dornish princess? Hadn’t Ash spoken so fondly of her? That poor princess and her mutilated children, a crimson mess on the floor. Who would this bloody war claim next? When he found Lyanna, would she even be alive?

“Eddard Stark, you listen to me.” The fingers on his hand had tightened into a vice grip, pulling Ned out of his spiralling despair.

“Listen to me, son. This is not your fault, do you hear me? You did nothing wrong. Just as she did nothing wrong. The gods are cruel at times, and they have chosen to take Lady Catelyn from this world. There is nought to do now but honour her memory. Grieve for her, and love your son. What else would she have wanted from you? Did Hoster not say she was happy to be your bride?”

“I…I don’t know, Jon, I just don’t know.” He buried his face in his free hand, feeling sick from the fresh wave of agony. “It just hurts. I don’t know anything else.”

Jon sighed. “If you forget everything else I’ve taught you, know this: the grief and guilt seem higher than the Wall now, but as with anything else, they will dull with time. All is not lost. And you will feel beyond the pain again, I promise.”

An hour hence, Ned led his men south to relieve the siege at Storms End.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ned. Things aren't going to get better anytime soon, either.


	3. Little Sister Mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just for reference: Ashara is 21 and Ned is 20. 
> 
> You probably have an image of what Ashara Dayne looks like in your head already, obsessed as this fandom is with her. Do let me know your thoughts/headcanon. 
> 
> But if you don't have a mental image already...look up recent pictures of Mackenzie Foy. (Yes, girl who played Bella's daughter in Twilight). She's 20 now (feel old yet?) but looks like she could be anywhere from 18 to 28. I saw a pic of her a few weeks ago and now I can't stop thinking that's what young Ashara looked like.

_Tower of Joy_

_One Moon Later_

“Ash? Where are you going?”

Lyanna’s voice echoed in the cavernous entry hall, and Ashara turned her head in the tower’s doorway. The girl was standing on the stone staircase, her hair still mussed from her nap. One hand gripped the railing, and the other supported her belly.

Gods have mercy, she looked as if she’d run down the stairs alone. Ashara felt her own stomach drop, and cold sweat broke out on her neck.

She rushed up to meet her, the swooping fear clinging until she had carefully helped Lyanna down the steps and into one of the chairs beside the doorway. It was only then that she began scolding.

“Gods Lya, you’re going to make my heart give out. If you stumbled on the stairs you’d fall all the way down! And you were running?”

Lyanna shook her head, dismissing the danger. 

“I saw you from my window, putting a bed roll on Flea. I didn’t want to miss you before you left.”

“Silly, I would have come up to take my leave. I just didn’t want to disturb your sleep. Still, why didn’t Old Yli help you? I cannot believe she let you come down yourself.”

Lyanna raised a dark brow at her, and Ashara was glad to see a bit of her humour returning.

“Who would be helping who down the stairs then? Besides, she was napping so peacefully.”

“Oh, Lyanna, you make me scared to leave you.”

This made the girl’s expression darken, and she bit her lip, suddenly hesitant.

“Why…why are you leaving? I thought—I mean, I’m grateful you’ve been with me until now but—I just thought you said you’d—”

Ashara reached for her hands at once and stopped her words.

“I shan’t be long. Likely no more than ten days. My little sister has taken ill—nothing serious, but we’ve found she behaves best if I am there.”

“Oh.” She saw Lyanna’s shoulder sag a little in relief, and something clenched in her chest—regret for making the girl think she was abandoning her.

Since Rhaegar had left Dorne, Ashara had come to the tower to keep Lyanna company. She had promised she’d see her through this pregnancy—how could she not promise this to a girl alone in an unknown land, having her first child among strangers?—and as Lyanna was only seven moons gone, Ashara was not worried for time.

Lyanna frowned again.

“Never say you’re going alone. Through those mountains?”

Ashara smiled. When she’d come up to the tower, she had travelled most of the way with Dayne banner men as they rode to join Lewyn Martell, heading north for the Trident. Lyanna couldn’t know that, for her, these mountains were as familiar as the back her hand. 

“Don’t worry about me,” she said. “It’s only two night’s journey, and I’ve ridden through the Red Mountains half my life. I’ll follow the Torrentine for most of it, anyway, and let Flea stretch his legs on level ground for once.”

Something like longing flashed in Lyanna’s eyes.

“But it must be dangerous. Surely there are…bandits? Or wild animals?”

The Lyanna that Ashara had met at Harrenhal would not have even asked such questions; would not have cared about the danger. Even the Lyanna who had greeted her moons ago would not have been so nervous for her. But that girl was gone now, and this Lyanna was still frowning with concern.

Ashara only waved her hand and gave her a sideways look, trying to convey her nonchalance.

“My lord brother and Larra Blackmont are not so incompetent as to allow bandits to roam these lands. Besides, I did promise to teach you how to throw blades. I wouldn’t be much of a teacher if I could not even defend myself.”

Lyanna broke into a little smile then, and Ashara grinned back, patting her hand.

“Yes, you did promise. I’m holding you to that, as soon as I don’t have the balance of an old cow anymore.”

Something frightened but determined flickered under her attempt at a jest, and again Ashara felt her heart tug, all the uncertainties of the future hanging in the air between them. How very, very brave was Lyanna Stark.

It had been a poisonously hot afternoon when they received news of Rhaegar’s fall at the Trident. No matter her personal thoughts on the man, for a moment Ashara had felt her vision go dark and her head swim with the heat.

Arthur and his sworn brothers had not been able to keep the grief from their faces, but Lyanna had simply nodded and thanked him, face still as ice.

Ashara understood. They were kind and attentive to her, but Lyanna would not cry in front of men she barely knew. And sure enough, the girl had kept her composure the rest of the day.

Only until late at night did Ashara hear her bitter weeping through the wall. For what seemed like hours, Ashara had paced her own room, wondering if her presence would be unwelcome, but in the end, she’d decided no one should have to grieve alone.

That had been a moon's turn ago, and in the past weeks Ashara had watched Lyanna lose the last bit of naive idealism young girls clung to.

Before, in the moments when she could forget that her brother and father had died for her, forget that a war was being waged in her name, Lyanna could still laugh and joke and smile, and Ashara had been glad for it.

After Rhaegar’s death, she grew quiet, and did not laugh any more. It took her a fortnight to regain some of the life she had exuded in such abundance once, but some nights, still, she would knock on Ashara’s door and ask for her company, her voice thick and hoarse.

Ashara had asked Arthur more than once what they were to do now, especially after news had come that Robert’s army had taken King’s Landing. Yet Arthur had just shaken his head.

“We remain as we were. Keep the princess safe. Once she gives birth, we keep the child safe as well.”

“They would both be safer at home instead of here, in some tower in the mountains with only a maid and a healer to attend them.

“The babe must be born here,” her brother had said, sounding so certain. “Afterwards, we’ll see.”

There was something he was not telling her, Ashara was sure. But while she could win any verbal spar against the Sword of the Morning, Arthur guarded his secrets as a dragon guards its eggs.

She had thought to ask Lyanna if Rhaegar had left instructions or plans, but did not want to upset her farther. What if the prince had simply promised he would return before the babe was born? Best not to bring it up if Lyanna said nothing.

That was the way she spoke with the girl about the events after Harrenhal. Ashara never asked about the previous, tumultuous year. If Lyanna wanted to confide in her, she would. If not, it was best to keep silent.

When she’d kissed Lyanna and her brother goodbye, packed the rest of her provisions, and tightened Flea’s girth a second time, Ashara wrapped her riding scarves securely around her head and mounted her horse. The sun was just beginning its descent, and she meant to chase it to the Red Mountains so she would have some light when she began on the mountain path.

She was just beginning to pick up a canter when she heard a shout from behind her. There was not mistaking the voice. She couldn’t help rolling her eyes, but eased Flea back into a walk.

It took Arthur a few moments to catch up.

“You couldn’t stop for two seconds?” he asked as he pulled up beside her, slowing his own steed from its gallop.

She rolled her eyes again, and did not dignify him with an answer.

“Arthur, what are you doing?”

“I’d ride with you.”

Ashara shot him a perplexed look. Arthur had always been more protective than their older brother Dev, but even he had never shown concern about her riding in the mountains.

“Just a couple of miles,” he clarified. “I wanted to speak with you.”

She kept her eyes on him, waiting as they both picked up a trot.

Finally, he spoke again.

“Ash, when you get to Starfall, stay put. Don’t come back here.”

She frowned, but did not answer right away. Arthur sighed.

‘We’re at war, Ashara, and the fighting is not so far away anymore. The rebels have King’s Landing. Prince Lewyn is dead. The king is dead. Rhaegar is…” His lips thinned, and he swallowed before continuing.

“Stay at Starfall. It isn’t safe here.”

“Arthur, we’ve spoken of this. If it’s so dangerous, then bring Lyanna back to Starfall. It will be so easy to hide her in one of the guests’ courtyards and have the same people attend her. Surely your duty is to keep her and the babe safe by any means possible.”

For some reason unknown to her, the prince had insisted that the existence of this child be kept secret, but it still did not explain why they must all melt here in the desert.

He shook his head.

“No, the child must be born here.”

Ashara closed her eyes in frustration.

“Well, if it’s safe enough for a woman seven moons gone with child, it’s safe enough for me. I promised I’d stay with her.”

“Ash—”

“What are you expecting to happen, Arthur? That Robert Baratheon will march an army of five thousand up to the tower’s gates? That Tywin Lannister will? They have no idea we are here. Besides, neither are fools. They would not dare invade Dorne now.”

“I—as usual, I cannot argue with your logic. Still, I have a terrible feeling about it.”

Ashara turned her head sharply. Had he had another of those chilling dreams?

She did not fully understand this, either: for years now, Arthur had told her of occasional dreams that seemed not of his own mind; dreams filled with all manner of the extraordinary, like Starfall encrusted in ice, and wild beasts caught in golden cages.

At first they had paid them little heed, but right before Harrenhal, Arthur had dreamt of riding through the Seven Kingdoms while his horse shone with green flames.

And then rebellion had broken out after the mad king burned Rickard Stark alive.

Ashara still went cold thinking about it. She had coerced Arthur to tell those dreams to Old Yli, an Orphan healer who had come to Starfall with her lady mother, but Yli said she’d had no training in the interpretation of dreams. The Rhoynar wise witches kept their mysterious knowledge closely guarded. Arthur had promised he would go to the Greenblood in due time and find a wise witch to ask about the dreams, but naturally he could not leave his post now.

“You don’t mean you dreamed of it, do you?” she asked carefully. “That something terrible would happen here?”

She saw his lips thin at her question, as if making a difficult decision, so already she knew the answer.

“So, no. You did not dream of this foreboding.” When he gave her an exasperated look, she smirked.

“You always debate in your head, but you never can bring yourself to lie to me, so I don’t know why you bother.”

“No, I cannot lie to you. I’ve had no more dreams these two years past, truly, but I just know in my gut that there will be danger and misfortune at the tower.”

“Whatever it is, Arthur, you and the other King’s Guard are there, and so is Borsyo. And like I said, you won’t be faced with an army.” _And even if you were, you would not leave. Whatever you promised the prince, you will not compromise. You will stay here, and do your duty._

For a moment he was quiet, but then he nudged his horse close and took her reins from her, pulling them both to a stop.

“Ash, they have taken King’s Landing. Robert Baratheon has been crowned king. Where do you think they’re marching now?”

“Storm’s End, naturally.” It was still besieged the last they had heard, though it was just as likely Robert’s forces had already taken back the castle.

“And who do you think the new king sent? The ageing Jon Arryn? Tywin Lannister, whom he has no reason to trust?”

Ashara bit her lip, for she knew now where he was leading.

“Storm’s End is not so far from here, and if Eddard Stark has half a brain in his head he will have concluded Dorne is the only place his sister can be.”

She narrowed her eyes.

“So you are telling me that I should stay at Starfall to avoid seeing an old lover when he comes knocking, asking for his sister?” She tried to keep the dry edge from her voice, she really did, but from the way Arthur flinched, she knew she hadn’t succeeded.

“It is not the only reason, but if it will keep you at home—”

“It will not. Surely you don’t think me so cowardly. And as I said, he has no idea where Lyanna is. It will take him a long while to find out.” _I would tell him if I could,_ she thought then. If she could ensure only he saw the letter, she would no doubt send a raven, but there was no way to reach him directly, and she could not risk this secret.

Arthur only sighed again, rubbing his exposed forehead. Ashara was suddenly struck by how weathered her gallant big brother looked in that moment. There were faint lines on his forehead and between his brows now, and strain pulled at his mouth and eyes.

“We both know he is not merely ‘some old lover,’” he said, meeting her eyes. “I just don’t want to see you hurting again, _Ahatu-i_. Least of all since the whole mess started because of me.”

 _Ahatu-i. Little sister mine._ Since Father died, they rarely used such Rhoynish endearments with one another anymore, only with Allyria. Now the word made a sweet sort of ache bloom in her chest, and Ashara could not help reaching for her brother’s hand.

“I agreed to nothing I did not wish, _Ahu._ And if you insist it was your doing, know that your plotting gave me ten glittering, magical days at Harrenhal. I did not know it was possible to fall in love so fast, but every moment of it was sweet.”

“And yet, your child—”

“Please.” She squeezed his hand, feeling the now-familiar stab of grief. “Only a fool would fault you for any of it. The child was simply…she was not to be mine. Nor is Ned Stark, it seems. I have made a sort of peace with it all.”

A numb, unnatural sort of peace, like the stupor one drifts through after taking milk of the poppy. Yet what else could she do? Give in to the grief and bitter pain? Let her broken heart break her life apart?

No. She was a Dornishwoman, and she was a Dayne. She came from stronger stock than that.

“It distresses me to think you blame yourself,” was all she said.

He gave her a small, sad smile.

“I shall endeavour not to.”

They rode together for another mile or two, feeling the setting sun on their faces and the cooling wind ripple their sleeves. As the last orange rays sank beyond the mountains, Arthur pulled up beside her and embraced her, kissing her forehead as he pulled away.

“Think about staying home, please,” he said. “But if you made a promise to the princess, then I suppose you must do as your honour demands.”

“You would understand better than most.”

“Be careful on the road, Ash. I will see you soon.”

And Ashara rode west into the mountains, heading for Starfall, her brother watching her back all the while.


	4. Smoke and Roses

_Five Days Later_

He was going to die. Here in this scorched land, under the roasting sun, he was going to die, his spilled blood sizzling in the hot sand.

Ned had always known that Ser Arthur Dayne was the best knight that walked the earth. He could be no more than five or six years his own senior, but when he was young Ned had loved best the stories of this all-powerful swordsman with his legendary blade.

But Ned could never have understood until this day just how good a swordsman was Arthur Dayne, and how inadequate his own skills were to fight the man. They had come at him together, he and Willam Dustin, but Ser Arthur had used one sword as if it were two, and fought them easily until he took Dustin’s head clean off, his arm moving as though he cut through nothing but air.

Now Ned was duelling him alone, barely able to catch his breath after each swing, all his focus on the burning in his chest and the ache forming in his arms and shoulders. Ser Arthur seemed to move with ease still, and Ned did not understand how it was that he still lived.

Surely he had left himself unguarded more than a few times by now, but the icy blade of Dawn had not come anywhere near his vulnerable points. Their swords met again, Ice and Dawn, and again Ned’s arm went numb, shaking uncontrollably with the weight of the attack, and his head seemed to ring inside his helm.

He managed to deflect yet another swing, and jumped back to catch a moment’s breath. His nostrils burned, and his throat was coated in sand. Vaguely, he was aware that the sounds of others fighting around him had subsided, but everything seemed distant and distorted, and he could not be sure.

Ser Arthur approached him now, and Ned thought he saw the knight’s eyes move from side to side, as if scanning the hillside around them, but Ned didn’t dare take his gaze from his opponent.

Ser Arthur swung again, and this time Ned thought his arm was going to fall like lead weights to his feet. His hand shook violently under the weight, but suddenly it was lifted, and his arm seemed to fly up, up, up…

The blade of Dawn was under his own blade then, and in one motion, Ser Arthur had cast Ice clean out of Ned’s hands. The force of it sent Ned himself sprawling to the side as well, and he landed in the burning sand. As if the world had slowed, Ned watched, almost detached from his body, as his sword clattered to the rocky sand, the dark Valyrian steel gleaming dully in the sun.

Even now he did not feel the panic. So, this was it then. He had wondered who this war would claim next. He had been arrogant enough to think that he and the seven men who had ridden into Dorne with him would make it out alive. This was it. He would never see his sister again, or his new son.

Ser Arthur approached him now, but for some reason, his arm was at his side, Dawn hanging with the tip facing down. Ned furrowed his brow, his mind as if stuck in sludge. Ser Arthur seemed to extend his empty hand.

And then he too fell to his knees.

Paralysed by shock and fatigue, Ned only lay there, the heat from the sand seeping through his armour, as he watched Ser Arthur Dayne fall before him. He must have made some noise, but Ned could near nothing save for his rasping pants. A shadow fell over them both then, and bright crimson cut through the yellow haze.

 _Howland_. His friend stood wide-eyed above him, then bent and picked up a flat disk of sorts, tucking it in his tunic. His eyes moved up from Howland’s face to the fallen knight before him.

“Where—how did you—help me roll him up.” That last moment—his lowered sword—his outstretched hand. It was almost as if...

Ned did not know where he found the strength to scramble to his feet, to bend down and drag the dying Ser Arthur to lean against a rock. Howland looked taken aback for a moment, but moved to comply anyway. The loudest sound was still the pounding of his heart as he and Howland propped the man up against a rock and removed his helm.

His hand came away slick with blood. Howland had cut Ser Arthur’s neck from behind, and blood seemed to rise like a gurgling fountain, tracking red streaks in his silver armour.

“There—there’s not way to save him, Ned, not out here with the two of us,” Howland said, panting as well, clutching somewhere above his right hip, where his armour had been sliced open and was now dark with blood.

“You were down. I didn’t—he was going to—had to be quick—about it—”

Ned only stared at him and nodded. Howland understood the thanks. He turned back to the knight, whose face was draining of colour. His eyes were bright as stars though, and Ned saw with horror that they were the same shade as Ashara’s.

“I’m sorry,” he said stupidly. He shouldn’t have. He wasn’t sorry—had no reason to be. This man was keeping his sister prisoner, had likely helped Rhaegar kidnap her, had stood by and done nothing even knowing that the prince raped her and held her against her will.

He should hate this man, should want to cut off his head, but Ned simply could not bring himself to believe him capable of such things. How could the man his Ash had spoken of with such love and pride be dishonourable and cruel? No, he was just a knight doing what he swore to do: obey his king; obey his prince; serve with his life.

Ser Arthur opened his mouth, and a raspy sound escaped. He licked his lips and tried again.

“Leave us…here…”

“What?”

“Here…where…duty…”

“You…you want us to bury you here?”

He closed his eyes and dipped his chin.

“We will. I swear, we will.”

“My…sister…”

A jagged sort of pain cut through the sense of unreality. Oh, gods help him, what had they done? Why could he not have tried to talk reason to Arthur Dayne? And at the end, when he had been on the ground, that outstretched hand…Oh gods, what had he done?

“I’m sorry,” he blurted again, and could not even keep straight exactly what he was apologising for.

Ser Arthur moved his head to the side, brows knotting as he tugged his wound.

“I…am sorry…your sister…Ash…you’re a good...”

His hand erratic, he reached under his tunic and drew out a piece of string, pulling it up over his head. On the end was attached a little shell, pink and pearlescent in the sun. He pressed it into Ned’s hand.

“What? What is—What are you saying?”

“End it…please.” His voice gurgled like sea foam, thick with blood.

“Ned.” Howland had sunk to his haunches beside him. In his hand was a stout dagger. “The man’s incoherent. Best to end it for him before he suffers any more.”

His hand was trembling again, but he reached for the blade. He looked into the man’s face, but his eyes had closed. For a moment, Ned closed his too. Then he shoved the blade deep into the back of Arthur Dayne’s skull.

O~O~O~O~O

Ned had not been two hours in Storms End when the maester had hobbled over to find him. The man had looked almost too weak to stand, and when Ned caught him and bid him sit, he had pressed a scroll into Ned’s hand.

“From King’s Landing, my lord. For you directly.”

There had been a small note wrapped around the large parchment, and on it, scrawled in a spindly red hand, was written:

_The one you seek is in a tower near the Prince’s Pass. Best to be discreet. I trust the North will remember, as they say, Lord Stark. Varys._

The larger parchment had been a detailed map, showing a path marked thick with red. For a few heartbeats, Ned had paused, wondering if this could be trusted, but if he was being honest with himself, he had no other option than to trust this Master of Whispers.

And so he set out by boat down to the Sea of Dorne and up the River Wyl. He had named five of his banner men, and Howland had named himself, and hoped Ned was not leading them straight into a trap. He had chosen them carefully. Some of his best swordsmen, to be sure, but more than that: Men who could keep silent; men who would keep his secrets.

He had not realised how unhappy Lyanna was with the betrothal until Benjen had confided in him. Ned did not know what he would find when he saw Lyanna, but if his sister did not want to return to Robert, he would help her disappear. They had lost too much for him to deny her anything.

Howland had insisted on joining him.

“I’m no swordsman, but I have weapons of more dubious honour. I can guard your back.”

Willam Dustin sailed them upriver with ease, ducking past Castle Wyl in the night, and manoeuvred their small sailing craft to the river’s source, near a ruin called Vulture’s Roost. The had unloaded their agitated horses there, and picked out the stony mountain road that led to the Prince’s Pass.

It had taken only a day to get to what was obviously the tower in Varys’ letter, and the three King’s Guard had been just off the road to meet them. 

All this time, when Ned had been dizzy with fatigue, when he had been parched as they tried to conserve water on the last leg of their journey, he had imagined seeing his sister again. He’d drawn the details of it vivid in his mind, so that when he closed his eyes Lya’s smiling face was vivid in the dark. It was what kept him going, the source upon which he drew to encourage his men.

Yet all through the past days—no, the past year—he had not imagined he would burst into a room to see Lyanna lying in a bed of blood.

The room felt hot and crowded, the air heavy and smelling of burning herbs and flowers. Perhaps there were others in the room. He did not notice. All his focus was on the dark-haired form lying in the bed.

Lyanna’s face was ashen white as he approached, her features drawn with fatigue, and for a breath he wondered if this was a nightmare, for he had never seen his wild sister so drained of life. It was not right.

“Lya?” His voice was a whisper. For the first time in his life, he felt he had to be careful with her, as if she were thin porcelain, and could break at a touch.

She opened her eyes. The apples of her cheeks rose as she smiled at him, and he rushed forward, grabbing her hand. It was cold and clammy, and his stomach dropped.

“Ned? You…you’re here big brother? Truly?”

“Yes,” he chocked out. “Yes, I’m here. I’m here, Lyanna.”

She smiled again, though the movement seemed to tax her. He drew closer, needing to know she was solid, and that’s when he caught the sharp scent of blood.

Her legs were covered in it, sticky and dark. He saw his hand reach out to touch the blanket. It was still warm.

“Why…why has no one…”

“Why bother changing them?” she said, and he had to strain to hear her. “I won’t stop…bleeding…”

“But—and the smoke—?”

“Helps with…pain…Doesn’t matter, Ned…oh Ned…” Her eyes seemed to drink in his face, and there was such longing there he wanted to weep. Then she turned away, and he followed her gaze. There was a bundle next to her shoulder.

“Pick him up…big brother…your nephew. I named…him Aemon.”

He had known this might be the way of things. Had expected it. Yet he still felt stiff with shock as he rose and awkwardly lifted the infant.

“Careful…his head…”

He had Lyanna’s colouring: dark wisps of hair, grey eyes that opened and examined the new man curiously. Ned exhaled in a gush, and his legs suddenly felt weak. He dropped back onto her bed, his eyes darting between his sister and the babe.

“You’ll keep him safe, won’t you? Away from Robert?” Ned felt his insides twist.

“I’ll keep you both safe. I’ll hide you away, and your son, and—”

She raised a trembling hand to his lips.

“Keep him safe for me, Ned. Please.”

He nodded mutely, staring again at the shiny grey eyes of his nephew.

“Promise me, Ned. Promise you’ll keep him safe…and you’ll tell him who he is…who his father was when he’s of age. Please Ned, promise me.”

He opened his mouth to tell her that he needn’t promise anything—that she would tell him herself. Yet the scent of blood still burned acrid in his nose. _I won’t stop bleeding_ , Lyanna had said.

“I promise.”

The tension left her shoulders then, like a severed bow string, and Ned panicked, a sharp pain whipping at his chest.

“Lyanna?!”

After a breath, she opened her eyes again, and draped her hand on the boy’s head.

“He wasn’t meant to be Aemon,” she whispered. Her breathe was coming short and hard now, as if she had just come from a long ride, but her cheeks held no colour.

“He was supposed to be a girl…Rhaegar said…but it doesn’t matter now.”

“Lya, shh, save your strength.”

“No, Ned…there’s no need.” She had to stop to catch her breathe again, and Ned saw that her cheeks were wet. Instinctively, he reached out a hand to her face.

“I…I’m trying to be brave…I am, but…”

“You are, little sister. You are brave.”

“I’m not…I’m not, I’m…scared…and I’m sorry…I’m sorry…”

“It’s not you, it was never your fault. Don’t be sor—”

“Yes it was…my fault…reckless, stupid…the king came after me…for Harrenhal…”

“What? What are you saying?” She didn’t seem to hear him.

“Rhaegar saved me…and we…Summerhall, to hide, but…Brandon…and father already…too…late I’m sorry…I never…I’m sorry…” Her voice came in gasps, and she seemed to struggle to breathe in between every word.

“Lyanna!” His own voice was ripe with panic, and when he placed a hand on her shoulder, she was trembling violently, despite the heat of the room. Ned placed baby Aemon next to his mother and desperately tugged the blankets tighter around her, but it was no use. His eyes darted around the room, seeing it for the first time, looking for something like a brazier.

A figure emerged into his vision, a small woman carrying a smoking basin. She set it close to the bed and nodded at Ned.

“Shall I take the babe?” She asked in her lilting accent.

“No!” Lyanna’s voice cut in before his, and she reached a ghost-white hand to tuck his sleeping form closer to her. “No, Wylla…no, I’d…keep him with…”

“As you say, princess.” She curtseyed and turned to the door, and that was when his sisters words sank in. He turned to her, eyes wide.

“What are you saying Lya? Are you saying…he didn’t kidnap you? Rhaegar didn’t kidnap you?”

She nodded, her eyes closed.

“I tried…I tried…ravens, and messengers I…tried but…couldn’t reach…tried…”

“Shhh, it’s alright, little sister, it’s alright, I know you tried.” Ned didn’t know where he found the wits to reassure her, not when his own head was spinning. A lie. It had all been a lie. His father, his brother, this kingdom torn apart, and it had all been a lie. Who lied to Brandon? Who started this bloody war?

Then another thought.

“Why did she call you princess? You…but surely Rhaegar’s already married.”

“Weirwood…we were…and he’s…Targaryen…doesn’t matter now.”

Ned found the infant’s face once more. If the wrong people knew about this…but Lyanna was right. It didn’t matter. Rhaegar already had a wife, and the Targaryens were no more.

“I just…I want…to go…home, and take…my son…home…”

“You will. You will. I’ll take you home. Get some rest—you’ll get better sooner, and I’ll take you both home.”

She shook her head again, and suddenly, when she looked at him, her gaze was decades older than her sixteen years. Those eyes held the weight of the world, the knowledge of all the pains of this life.

“No, Ned, I won’t be…seeing…Winterfell…There’s a…a sanctuary…near…” She swallowed, and Ned held up a clay cup for her.

“When I’m gone…”

“No, Lya—”

“When…I’m gone…I want to go…home…have the Sisters…clean…my bones—”

An icy hand seemed to clutch at the back of his spine, and the tang of blood and flowers stung his nostrils, making his stomach turn. They did not do this in the North, and for very good reason, for it always seemed unnatural. The very idea of consigning his body to maggots, then being boiled as if in a soup…Surely she couldn’t want that.

“Lyanna, are you—”

“My bones…Ned…I want… to Winterfell…promise you’ll…and…take my bones…home…”

He clenched his jaw. Her eyes were huge and glassy, desperate to hear him agree.

“Please…”

“I promise, Lyanna. One way or another, I’ll take you home, I promise.”

Her eyes closed, and again the panic rose, bile in his throat.

“Lyanna?”

“Sorry…my son, I’m sorry…promise me, Ned…protect him, promise…I’m sorry…”

“I promise, I promise. I’ll keep your son safe, I’ll tell him of you, I’ll take you home I promise, I promise!’ He had to force out his words, his throat knotting, his vision blurring. Roughly, he wiped at his face, but did not see her open her eyes again.

“Lyanna? Lyanna!”

She did not speak again. The room seemed to fade, then it darkened, and Ned could not remember anything else but the scent of blood and burning roses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't want to be that author who explains stuff in the notes, but I'd like to say that, in terms of the fight at the TOJ, I 100% subscribe to the theory that the Kings Guard intended to kill all of Ned's companions, but let Ned up to see Lyanna. They knew Ned would keep things secret, but not that the others would. Again, it's not a theory I came up with, just something I find compelling.


	5. Free Flying

_Starfall_

_The same day_

Ashara stood in the highest tower room at Starfall, looking south to where the Torrentine spilled into the Summer Sea. The tide was rising, and the currents knit a quilt of diamonds in the rich blue waters, the little splashes blooming frothy white in the sun. For the third time since her return home, she considered what it might feel like to jump.

Family tradition held that daughters’ rooms always faced northeast, overlooking the lower courtyards and the endless tiers of castle gardens. Every morning at Starfall, she could look across the Torrentine at the town on the east bank, imagining the townspeople bustling about their new day, seeing the little dots appear on the water as fishermen set out in their boats.

Yet Ashara had always liked the boys’ rooms better—the ones that looked south, past the tails of the Red Mountains and onto the endless sea—for there was something exhilarating and free about the vast expanse of blue on the horizon, as if full of promise.

So here she stood, on the upper floor of the Palestone Sword, the wind tangling her hair as she looked out at the promise of life from her window. If she climbed up on the ledge and stepped out into the nothingness, would she feel the wind rushing through her hair as she fell? For those few breaths, would she feel unburdened and light again?

She was too high up to smell the salt of the sea, but not so high that the air was completely dry. As a young girl, she had hated the way the wet sea breeze made her skin sticky and hot, but she had since known the parched air of Sunspear and the bone-deep damp of Dragonstone, and the warm, thick air here felt like an embrace.

In the year since she had come home, she would climb the hundreds of steps up here to find some solace when her heart ached so much she found it hard to breathe. With the open expanse of the sea to one side and the Red Mountains to the other, she felt like she could fly away from her body and all the pain she carried like chains around her neck.

Ashara had come home from Dragonstone carrying the bones of her stillborn daughter in an ornate box. She had not been able to cry once since it happened—not through the cloying pain of the miscarriage, not when Elia held her head in her lap and stroked her hair with soft fingers, not when she lit the funeral pyre on the Ait of Ling.

She could not think of her daughter for long. The grief of it made her ill and dizzy, and sometimes the pain was so sharp she would close her eyes and see pinpricks of light behind her eyelids. She had never known this tiny child, had never had the chance to see what shade of purple her eyes took on, but still, it felt like losing the babe had carved a bloody hole into her breast.

And yet, she could not cry.

Nor had she been able to weep when news came from the north, first that the king had burned Rickard Stark and strangled his heir, then that Ned Stark, new Lord of Winterfell, had taken his late brother’s betrothed to wife.

In truth, on that last day at Harrenhal, when Rhaegar had abandoned his plans completely and crowned Lyanna Stark with winter roses, Ashara had feared that the marriage her brother had planned would not be allowed to take place. Something had gone terribly awry in Rhaegar’s plan to call a council and overthrow his father.

When she had slipped away to take that last, hasty leave of Ned, they had not talked about the politics swirling around them, of the seeming impossibility of their marriage now, of their duty and their families. She had only told him her fear—that perhaps their time together had been but a miraculous dream—and he had held her to his chest and whispered in her ear.

“I don’t know what will happen, or when I will see you next. But I swear to you, if I can find a way to marry you, I will.”

That had been all the promise he could give her. It had not been enough. He could not have waged this war without Tully troops, nor could the North survive the winter if it bore the ill-will of the Riverlands. Hoster Tully wanted his grandson to one day be Warden of the North, and Ned Stark had chosen his duty and his honour. As he should. She was just one woman, and he was just one man. What did their private pains matter?

She understood it all. She was his enemy besides, and her brother protected the prince who stole away his sister, no matter that Rhaegar had been trying to save her from the king. And yet, the longing still bubbled in her belly, and irrationally, she refused to be resigned to the death of this love. 

Ashara had been no blushing maid at Harrenhal. Few could grow up in the Dornish court and still be innocent at nine and ten. She had kissed her first girl at thirteen and her first boy at fourteen, and the following year had given her maidenhead to Myles Manwoody while Symon Santagar kissed her breasts.

At Sunspear, at court, and later on Dragonstone, Ashara had taken lovers for lust, for affection, for secrets and for favours. She had never been in danger of losing her headwith any of them, as if she could feel the end of each affair before it began.

Yet one look into Ned Stark’s soft grey eyes, and she had fallen completely out of her senses. Somehow she knew this man could see into the depths of her, and cherish her as she was, and easily hold her heart in his hand.

He was honourable and serious and proper, but wolf blood ran just as thick in him as his siblings, for all that he denied it. When he had spoken of his family, she had known he would put aside all lofty notions of honour and pride for each of them, and Ashara had imagined often how it must feel to be loved so. And it seemed, in those sweet days, that perhaps he really did love her.

So she could not find it in her to put that love behind her, though she knew in her mind that she had little to offer him now, and he would never dishonour his new wife.She was going to love Ned Stark for the rest of her life, and it seemed she had not yet determined how she would live that life without him.

She needed him here now. Ached for him to wrap his arms around her waist and kiss the nape of her neck. If she closed her eyes, she could almost imagine he was standing just behind her, and smell the dark rich scent of him. It was nonsensical, really, how quickly someone she had not even known to miss could become as essential to her as food and breath, but it was the truth of things.

If he were here now, she would find some comfort, she was sure of it. But if he were really here, she would be living a different world entirely, and perhaps she would not need to be comforted at all.

O~O~O~O~O

Earlier that day, she had just coaxed Allyria into a nap when Dev’s steward came to find her, asking her to come to his winter solar. Ashara had thought nothing of the summons—she did act as Lady of Starfall when she was home, and her brother often had things to consult with her.

She found Dev’s solar door ajar, so Ashara tapped on the wood and pushed it inward in one motion.

“Dev?”

Adevar Dayne, Lord of Starfall, had been sitting at his desk, his head in his hands. At her entrance, he looked up, but did not give her his usual grin and gregarious compliment as a greeting. At once she had frowned, sensing something wrong, but he only nodded for her to sit.

“How’s Lyrie doing? Chafing at the bit yet?”

“As she always does,” Ashara sighed.

It had been four days since Ashara had come home from the tower, and Allyria was at last strong enough to sit up for a morning without wilting. She had been afflicted with this strange illness since she had been a babe—fainting out cold, followed by days of fatigue and weakness a few times each year—and no one had been able to understand what was wrong with her.

Allyria hated her days confined to bed, her physical body in conflict with her little girl’s desire to roam and play. Boredom led to tantrums and tears, and her days abed were trials for the entire household, which was the reason Ashara had left Lyanna to come home. She could keep her little sister entertained better than most.

Dev sighed too. “Thank the gods you’re here, Ash,” he said. “I never was good with children.”

“I know.” She patted his hand. “Did you need me for something?”

“I’ve received a summons from Sunspear,” he said, staring back down at his letter. Ashara heard her own intake of breath. The prince had never done this.

“Doran needs to make some big decisions given the state of this war, and he wants as many opinions on his council as he can have.”

“Can you not send ravens? It’s not a short journey, and the air in Sunspear has only become dryer this year.”

Her brother was not yet thirty, but his lungs had always been weak. Unlike Arthur, he was spindly and small of frame, barely taller than Ashara herself, and had never possessed the strength required to partake in combat training. She did not like the thought of her brother sailing all the way to Sunspear, let alone spending weeks in that oven of a city.

A faint sliver of a grin curled his lip then.

“Aw, come now, Ash, you’re starting to sound like Old Yli. I know what I can handle. This trip will be nothing.”

Ashara pressed her lips together, not agreeing, but not disagreeing either. He was the lord, after all, and part of her still instinctively believed he knew best.

“You will leave Ryoon as castellan then? You know I must go back to the tower once Allyria can leave her bed again.”

He gave her a frustrated look. “I wish you would not, but I cannot very well order you to do anything. Still, I mislike this mess the prince has died and left us with.”

Ashara returned a humourless laugh.

“And Arthur still guards his secrets and tells us nothing. You are not the only one who mislikes the state of things, Dev.”

Dev pinched the bridge of his nose.

“He worries me, our brother.”

“Yes,” Ashara frowned. “He told me not to return. He said he was worried for my safety when it is he who is a wanted man.”

Dev shot her a grim smile.

“I fear none of that matters to Arthur. He holds dear our lives, but his own—” Dev shrugged. “He’s always said there are things more important.”

“And what of his duty to us?” Ashara felt the familiar frustration rise in her throat. Her good, honourable brother, so willing to die for his prince.

Dev’s smile turned sad. “Every man must make his choices. Perhaps my choice has given him freedom to make his.” Something in Ashara’s face must have prompted him to change the subject.

“But it is not he alone who concerns me. Our whole family has been embroiled too deep with Rhaegar’s schemes. Now that Robert has won…I fear Starfall is on his road of retribution.”

Ashara shook her head.

“We are doing nothing save fulfilling our duty to king and liege. We’ve done nothing that deserves vengeance, surely.”

“From what I have heard of the man, yours would not be his line of reasoning.”

She frowned, her chest tightening. She had not thought they could face any sort of danger here, yet if Dev was worried…No, it would make no sense. She tried to shake away the doubt.

“I have told this to Arthur too. They would not risk outright conflict with Dorne, not now that their armies are mostly exhausted. And how will Robert Baratheon get to us without direct conflict with the Martells?”

“Do you really think they would protect us should it come to that?”

She felt her brows shoot up. That was what worried him?

“Of course they will.”

He gave her his familiar patronising smile, and she felt herself bristle like an irritated cat.

“Oberyn does not rule Dorne, Ash. Doran does. And for Doran Martell I daresay no personal bonds are as strong as his sense of the greater good.”

She opened her mouth to contradict him, but closed it again soundlessly. It was a true enough assessment of Prince Doran—the man had always given her chills, for all that he had only ever been kind to her.

But no. It went beyond whatever love Doran’s siblings had for her. Ashara had spent years at Sunspear, taking in the family. She shook her head again.

“They are our liege. For our loyalty, they owe us protection. This is not like the Targaryen invasions of old. Robert does not have dragons. The Martells abide by these rules of fealty now, like the rest of Westeros. We will not be left to fend for ourselves if things really came to a head. Neglecting us would put ice into the hearts of every other lord, and Doran has trouble enough keeping the Ullers and Yronwoods in check as it is.”

He looked at her, eyes narrowed in thought.

“It is reasonable to assume his motives thus, so long as you have assessed his mind correctly. I must press the point of our long loyalty then, and remind him of Yronwood treachery and Uller insolence.”

Ashara nodded.

“When do you leave?”

“In the next couple of hours, gods willing.”

She rose. “I’ll go direct some of the packing, shall I?”

She spent the next hours helping the servants ensure Dev had all his comforts for his sea journey—reminding them to pack the best blankets to ward off damp, pointing to the tonics Old Yli had made him his wheezing spells and seasickness.

When all was prepared, she walked with her brother and his retinue down to the docks. She expected him to kiss her on the forehead and depart, but instead he drew her to one side, out of earshot of the others.

“Dev?”

Something felt strange and wrong in the way Dev was looking at her now, the lines between his brows deepening, his eyes growing soft.

“There is another—there is more news from Sunspear that I did not tell you earlier.”

“Oh?”

He handed her the letter still bearing the Martell seal.

“I am so very sorry to tell you this, Ashara. Doran has also written that Princess Elia and her children have been killed in King’s Landing.”

The sky seemed to splinter, the sounds of the dock crowding into her ears and temples, and all she understood was a blur of colours and echoing voices. She had shaken her head, for surely it could not be true, and yet her vision had blurred, and black dots appeared before her eyes. She remembered looking down at the letter, written in Prince Doran’s stately hand:

_My sister Princess Elia and her two children…kept at King’s Landing…hostages for the Mad King to ensure Dornish support…slaughtered when the Lannister army sacked the capital._

Sometime not long after, when her brother had departed, she had stumbled to the end of the dock and heaved the contents of her midday meal into the river, but that too had felt like a blurred, sickening mess.

As if in a fever dream, she had stumbled back up the stony path that led to the water. Perhaps a servant had been there to hold her. She did not recall. In a blinding daze, she must havewandered back up the garden paths under the unrelenting sun, and climbed to the top of the Palestone Sword. She could not remember doing any of that now.

When she had returned to her senses, here she stood, listening to the wind, watching the sea; wondering if, should she jump out this window, she could be light and free from the onerous grief, even for a few short seconds.

The thought did not horrify her as it had the first time it surfaced. Now it was only a consideration, a suggestion that would not give up and die, despite her best efforts when her head was clear.

 _Just climb on the ledge and step out into the air,_ the wind seemed to call to her. Y _ou shall bear no more of this crushing torment. Your chest will be light, and you will fly as free as a star._

O~O~O~O~O

Her mother had died when Ashara was seven, and that year, she had sailed to Sunspear to be a companion for Princess Elia.

At the Water Gardens, she had met Prince Oberyn first—wild, skinny and sharp. His mouth was constantly set in a smirk, but his eyes were dark and fierce. He had taken one look at her and asked if she was simple in the head. When she had frowned in confusion, a little offended, he had nodded sagely, as if her reaction confirmed it for him.

“I knew it. I could tell just by looking at you.”

“I am not simple in the head! Why would you say that?”

Before he could speak again, a delicate-looking girl had appeared behind him, clamping her small, thin hand over his smirking mouth.

“Don’t mind my brother,” she had said, her voice as light as a hummingbird. “Some dolt told him that the prettier someone’s face, the more stupid they are, and you’re the most beautiful girl we’ve ever seen.”

That was the way Elia spoke when she complimented someone—always so earnest and matter-of-fact that it was impossible not to believe her—and Elia was generous with her compliments. 

When they played their games in the pools, Elia was always the peacemaker. She was a princess, so despite her small frame, the other children gave her an extra ounce of deference, which she used to make sure all was fair, and no one was left out.

Ashara could barely recall now any specific moment from those early years, but somewhere amid the laughter and embraces and weaving of flowers in each other’s hair, she no longer felt the empty confusion of her mother dying.

She had found sisters in those sun-lit days amid the gurgling fountains and flying silks—Larra Blackmont, Moriah Qorgyle, Jynesse Manwoody, Dyanna Dalt—but it was Elia she always carried closest to her heart.

They were all of an age, a couple without mothers, and Elia, though she was supposed to be the princess they served, had become half a mother to them all as well as their friend.

It was always Elia who remembered extra wraps for when they forgot theirs in the evening, and it was Elia who had the best words for when their first romances ended in tears. She had always been quiet and delicate and small, but she was like the sun on the sigil of the Martells. They revolved around their princess, and loved her with all their hearts, and in return she shone light into their lives.

Back before she had known anything of politics and influence, of the way marriage really worked, Ashara had entertained a fancy that Elia would marry Arthur, and she would have Elia for a sister in truth. The couple would live at High Hermitage, heirs to old uncle Dolyon, who had not yet remarried in those days. Ashara would see them every week.

One day, as she brushed the princess’ hair, the suggestion had slipped past her lips.

"Oh, Ash," Elia had sighed, taking her hand in her delicate ones. "Arthur and I could never marry. I doubt I will marry a Dornishman at all, and your brother is destined for the King’s Guard, don’t you know? He will serve the king all his life, and never take a wife."

Ashara had known by then that Arthur would wear the white cloak, of course, and that he would spend his life away from Dorne. The serving girls whispered about her gallant brother every time he came home to visit, and Father and Dev always spoke of Arthur’s exploits with pride.

Yet in that way children have of ignoring a fact they found foul to the ear, Ashara had always imagined both her brothers married, with little nieces and nephews chasing her own children over the patterned tiles.

"Come, Ash, don’t look so glum," Elia had said when she saw Ashara’s face fall. "We could still be sisters in truth. You’d only need to marry Oberyn."

That very idea had sent them both into fits of giggling, for even at twelve it was clear that Oberyn would not marry anyone if given the choice.

How could she exist no longer, her Elia, so gentle with all around her, and so generous with her joy? And little chattering Rhaenys, and the sweet baby Aegon whose cheeks were powdery soft? Who could have hearts so hard that they would snuff out their lives? Elia would not harm a soul, and she would have raised her children to forgive, not to seek revenge.

She could not make logic of it, and the utter senselessness of their deaths was like salt water on an open wound.

Were all those she loved doomed to death? Who would be next?

Night was upon her now, up in her windy tower, chilled and empty. The dark had crept up from the east when she had not noticed, and when she rushed to the western window, she saw that the sun had already slipped beyond the tips of the Red Mountains.

The air still called to her, and so she did not let herself near the windows again. She was a Dayne, and she was of Dorne, but she did not know if she had the strength to carry this grief with her anymore, not as her life stretched long and far before her, and alone.

O~O~O~O~O

Three days later, she was waiting in the stables for Flea when Corynne ran down the steps from the castle, her sandals thwacking the stone.

“Milady! Milady!”

“Slow down, Corynne. And breathe first.” For the handmaiden had begun trying to speak, only to be cut off by her own panting.

She took several long breathes before her voice returned.

“Ser Ryoon’s asked you come to the gates at once, milady! There are riders at the bridge.”

Ashara frowned, but set down her pack and bedroll, motioning Corynne up the stairs.

“Riders? How many?”

“Just two that I saw, milady, but I was running to get you so I didn’t get a long look.”

“Did Ryoon say anything else?” Starfall was not a castle on a pass-way. The Red Mountain ranges extended into the sea, with only the Torrentine cleaving a sizeable path between them. Starfall sat at the mouth of the river, surrounded by mountains and water.

One did not ride up to their gate unless they had come specifically to see someone in the castle, and Ryoon would not trouble her unless it was a guest she must receive.

“No, milady, nought that he’s told me, anyway. He just said as to fetch you quick.”

Something tight and anxious was knotting in her stomach. She did not like this at all. There had been no bird from another castle, and with her brother only three days gone to Sunspear…

She emerged into the bailey yard to see Ser Ryoon pacing before the gatehouse,wringing his hands, his moustache bouncing almost comically. He looked up at her footsteps and hurried over.

“Lady Ash, I have no idea what to make of this.”

“What? Ser Ryoon, please. Who is at the gate?”

He led her over to the gatehouse, and she followed him inside, where the lookout could clearly see across the flat bridge and through the series of portcullises to the two riders between the guards on shore.

“Who do they say they are, Ryoon?” She asked again, squinting at them, but she had played this game half her life. Starfall was too far from land to make out anything more than the stature and hair colour of people on land.

“One of them is our Borsyo, my lady,” said Ryoon. She frowned, not comprehending. _But Borsyo is supposed to be with Lyanna and Arthur._

“The other says he is Eddard Stark, Lord of Winterfell.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Ashara. Both her brothers are kind of shitty, and she’s just not okay with feelings .


	6. He Was No Bard

Ned and his lone companion rounded a bend in the River Torrentine, and before them, in the distance, lay the castle of Starfall, gleaming white and tall on its island. On either side of the river were fields and groves now, and a town sat on the east bank, just upriver from the island. Ned could hardly believe this was still Dorne. It was as green as he remembered the Riverlands to be, only rockier.

After they had buried the bodies at the tower—he could not take all five of his men on a trek back up through the mountains, and he doubted any of them would appreciate being stripped of flesh and boiled—they had travelled to the Silent Sisters sanctuary nearby.

He had given them Lyanna's body. Then he'd left Howland with the babe and the two women while he travelled to Starfall with the man called Borsyo. He couldn't bear to look upon Lyanna's face one last time, but now he wished he hadn't been so cowardly. The knowledge was only now settling in—taking root—that he would never look at her in the flesh again. Already knowledge of it ached like a festering wound.

Rhaegar had left Lyanna only an old Rhoynish healer called Yli, her son Borsyo, who did the heavy-lifting, and her granddaughter Wylla, who served as the infant's wet-nurse.

He had not known what to say to any of them. The old woman had seen Ser Arthur's body lying in the sand and let out a blood-curdling wail For a long time she would not stop crying, though her granddaughter had assured Ned all would be well.

"My gran came to Starfall with the late Lady Dayne," she had explained. "She watched Lord Arthur grow up and the like. But she understands. It's war. People die in war. You gave him a quick honourable end."

 _She understands._ But Ned doubted his family would. Gods, he hoped he would be met with the stranger that was Lord Dayne when he arrived at Starfall. Hoped to hope that Ashara would somehow not be there. He could not face her.

And go to Starfall he must, and not only because he needed to return Dawn to salvage what was left of his honour. It was clear that people at the castle knew Lyanna had been here. With Rhaegar. Knew, likely, that there would be a child. If he was to hide the infant away and keep him safe, he and those at the castle would need to tell the same story.

They stopped once more to water the horses, and Ned gratefully took the flatbread spread with spiced paste from his silent companion. It seemed that Borsyo was not merely a most reticent man, as Ned had originally thought. He was actually incapable of speech, though he could make humming or huffing sounds to accompany his gesticulating. Ned did not mind, really.

He was not the talkative sort himself. The silent ride had given him ample time to consider his options with his nephew, whom he had decided to name after Jon Arryn. He would claim him as his bastard child—no one would question it, surely, for it was common enough that men had bastards on campaign—and he would take him back to Winterfell.

Hoster Tully would not like it, and Ned did not like the idea of declaring to the realm that he had been unfaithful to his wife, but he would deal with those problems when they faced him in King's Landing.

Ned supposed that, if Borsyo did not speak, that was one fewer tongue to worry about. However, what he was to do with Yli the healer and Wylla the wet-nurse he could not fathom. Eventually they would need to go home, and Wylla in particular seemed the chatty sort.

If Arthur Dayne had brought them to the tower, likely he had trusted them, but they were not Ned's people, and he could not be sure. He was not sure of anything anymore—anything save he needed to protect Lyanna's son at all costs, and gods help him, he would find a way.

Rhaegar and his careless stupidity. Ned found himself gritting his teeth each time Rhaegar entered his mind. He did not know what to make of Lyanna's words, but she had been right. It did not matter. The man left his children and wife to be slaughtered, and no matter if he kept Lyanna safe, was bedding her a necessity too? And now Lyanna was no more than bones in a chest thanks to Rhaegar Targaryen.

Sometimes Ned found himself wishing he had been the one to crush in his chest at the Trident, and he clung to the anger, for it hurt less than the helpless grief.

As he rode up to the bridge leading to the castle, he said another silent prayer. He felt as though he were a raven, carrying death with him as he rode. His dark wings spread to cast black shadows over those who neared him, despite the blaring Dornish sun. _Please let this be the end,_ he prayed _. I cannot bear any more misfortune. I do not have the strength._

**O~O~O~O~O**

He had to repeat his title to the guards three times before they understood him, and even then they looked at each other and hesitated—they had never heard of Starks or Winterfell, and why should they? He was about as far from home as he could be without leaving Westeros.

"Can I ask your business here? Uh…milord?" asked the runner boy, clearly dubious about his lordly status. He couldn't blame him for that either. He'd been wearing the same travelling clothes for nearly a fortnight, and though he had done a cursory washing at the sanctuary, there had been no time to shave or even scrub the dust from his face.

"I'm here to see your lord," he said. "I have something to return to him."

The boy bowed and raced off across the bridge without more questions, but one of the guards frowned.

"Lord Dayne's not here, milord. You just missed him a couple days back."

Ned felt his jaw tighten. He had been afraid of this, but he asked stubbornly,

"I will be meeting Lady Dayne then?"

"No, milord" The other guard shook his head. "Our lord isn't married. Lady Ashara is home, so she's in charge."

So it was then. The entire ride here, Ned had repeated to himself over and over that surely Lord Dayne would be home. That surely he would not be forced to meet Ashara like this—be forced to give her this news to her face. Perhaps the gods had found him disingenuous, for he lied when he wished not to see her at all. Or perhaps his gods held no power on the southern edge of this land.

He waited in silence, trying to rehearse the exact words he would use, but he had never been a bard. And anyway, he doubted that any poet could find a gentle way to inform someone he had killed their brother.

Ned did not know how long he stood there, but before he was ready, the guards had received some kind of signal from the castle, and they bowed him through the gateway. Borsyo rode behind him, giving Ned a clear view down the flat bridge and past the final gate. There he saw her, and though he could not make out her features, the sight of her was at once intensely sweet and bitter.

She was standing in the bailey, the breeze blowing her robes around her. Her hair was bound in a braid that spilled over one shoulder, ink against her cream-white skin, and as he drew near, for a moment he was dazzled by a purple sparkle as the sunlight caught her eyes just so.

Warm, brilliant Ash, who had made him laugh until his cheeks hurt, and then looked at him with those gemstone eyes, making him feel ten feet tall. How could he have wished he would not see her? He had not realised how deeply he missed the sight of her.

Gods, how he loved this woman.

No, he reminded himself reflexively. No, he must not think about her now. He was married. He must not dishonour his wife.

 _Except you aren't married,_ a cool voice put in. _Not anymore. You're free to marry her if you wished._

And Ned stiffened so violently that his horse nearly halted under him. He took a breath, nudging the horse to move again.

He was not married anymore. Because Catelyn was dead. Dead after he'd barely known her a fortnight. Died giving birth to Ned's son. It had not been two moons, and here Ned was thinking of taking another woman to wife. Was he to dishonour Catelyn in truth as well?

He approached the castle gateway now, and Ned pulled his mind to the task ahead. It was not hard to do. The weight of Dawn, wrapped in spare sheets, pressed rigid against his back, the weight of his news burning painfully into his flesh.

He had come close enough to Ashara that he could see her throat move as she took in his form. Her face did not betray any emotion, pale and still as the white stone all around them, and even her round eyes were like frozen pools. She was wearing riding breeches under a sheer silk tunic the colour of sand, and her hair was bound with silver wire, though dark curls escaped to fly about her face.

Ned forgot to breathe. He remembered the first time he saw her, how he had been frozen stiff to his bench. Her beauty had overwhelmed his senses, and again Ned was winded by the sight of her.

She was thinner than he remembered, her eyes bigger and her chin pointier. There was an air of fragility about her, as if her clothes were too heavy for her body, for all that they were silks rippling in the breeze.

With a pang, Ned wondered if she had received news of his marriage. She must have. It was no secret. When last they saw each other he had held her to him and all but promised he would find a way to marry her. He had broken that promise, and every whispered word of affection between them. He had had no choice, but he had done her wrong regardless.

He wondered now if it was hubris to think she would be affected by him after all these moons. All who had brokered their marriage were dead. She was no longer obliged to him, and she had made it clear the Dornish did not view what they'd shared at Harrenhal to be dishonourable.

Had she only felt affection for him because she knew they would be wed? Had the time between them faded her feelings like dyed fabric under the sun? Her face was a stone mask, and he wondered briefly if this was Robert's complaint about his own face—that it seemed made of stone and betrayed no emotions.

For once Ned was glad of it. He hoped the tangle of guilt and anguish and longing in his chest was not written on his face for all to see. Somehow, he managed to climb from his horse and land on his feet. He walked towards her, and she curtseyed, then extended a hand as was proper.

"Lord Stark," she said, her eyes meeting his without hesitation, though he could not seem to find her in them. For a moment he hesitated, wondering if it was wise to touch her.

"My lady," he said finally, unable to bring himself to say her name. He took her hand lightly and bowed over it, thankful for the cover of formality. Her skin was ice cold, and Ned frowned.

"Are you well, my lady?" he could not help asking. Her throat moved again.

"Of course, my lord." She hesitated. "I trust you are well? And uninjured?"

"Yes, I thank you."

For a moment they simply stared at each other, Ned feeling suspended in the air like a puppet. Finally, she nodded at him and turned away, then over to where Borsyo was dismounting his horse. She gave the moustachioed man next to her a meaningful look before coming back to Ned.

"Please, come inside, my lord. Corynne, have a room and bath prepared."

The girl nodded, then looked at Ned, a little hesitant. Ned realised then that she meant to take the parcel he wore on his back, so shook his head.

"I will take this in with me, thank you." The girl frowned, but curtseyed and slipped away.

Ashara looked at him again, curious, and it was he who bowed his head and looked at his boots. She led the way then, her riding boots clicking on the white stone. As they passed through another gateway, he thought he saw her hands trembling, but when they came into light again she had hidden them in her robes.

Starfall was unlike any castle Ned had ever seen. They emerged onto a long courtyard lined with trees and a series of fountains and surrounded by porticoes of intricate trifold arches. Ned followed Ashara down one of the covered walkways, his eyes straying to take in the exotic beauty of the place despite his troubled mind. At the end of the courtyard, she bade him enter.

The great hall opened up before him, ornate with carved wood and marble, and sprinkled with light falling through the lattice windows on the vaulted ceiling. A young page stood in one of the light beams, carrying a tray. Silently, Ashara glided over to him and brought two plates to Ned.

"Bread and salt, my lord," she said, offering him the ancient symbols of guest right. Ned reached to take the bread, but for a moment was uncertain. Did he do so in bad faith? Should he tell her what he had done first? Likely once she had heard it, she would not wish to extend him any courtesy. Never in his years at the Vale had Jon prepared him for what to do should he need to bring news of this nature.

The page was still in the hall, however, and Ashara was beginning to frown at him.

"I thank you." Ned took a piece of bread, dipped it in salt, and placed it in his mouth. She then brought Ned a brightly-coloured bowl.

"Rose tea," she said. "For the heat."

Ned nodded again, and drank all the warm liquid, his throat easing after the dry bread and salt. She brought the bowl back to the page, then dismissed him.

"Come, this way my lord." She led him through the empty hall then and past the high table into a smaller room, equally dappled with light. At the centre was an elaborate wooden table.

She bade him sit, but before either of them did so Ned removed Dawn from his back and set it on the table. He could not allow himself the luxury of putting off the news one moment more. She frown again, her lips slightly parted with the question she was about to ask.

"You said you came to return something to my lord brother, Lord Stark," she said stiffly.

"Yes." He unwrapped the sheet. Dawn lay amid the fabric, its scabbard the same rich wood of the table it rested on, the clear yellow stone on its pommel catching the sunlight. Ned forced himself to look at Ashara, and watched as shock and bafflement crept into her face.

"How do you have my brother's sword?" Her voice came to him in a whisper, a question as if for herself.

"I am very sorry, my lady. Ser Arthur—he is dead."

Her head snapped up, her eyes huge.

"What did you say?"

Ned resisted the urge to avert his gaze. _Don't be a coward now. You owe her this._

"Ser Arthur is dead. I slew him."

For a moment she was still as a statue, and then, to Ned's horror, she laughed.

"No, you didn't. That's impossible." She was still smiling an exquisite, haunting smile, shaking her head as if he had told an elaborate jape.

"My lady—"

"What funny trick are you playing, my lord? And you expect me to believe you could have bested my brother? The best knight in the realm? Please, my lord, really, you don't even know where Arthur—"

"Ashara!"

The smile slipped from her face as she flinched, her eyes returning to the sword.

"This is no jest. I speak true."

"I don't believe you," she said, her voice shaking, her eyes fixed. "You're speaking nonsense. Tell me how you have Arthur's sword."

Ned closed his eyes and let out a coarse breath. He had expected her to rage or to weep, but not this.

"I received news about my sister's whereabouts while at Storm's End. I brought six men with me, and we travelled to the tower. Ser Arthur and the two other King's Guard there stopped us. We drew swords, and in the fight Ser Arthur was mortally injured. I ended his life with my own hands."

Again she was shaking her head.

"No, but you could not have injured him so. He…you…Arthur is…"

For a moment, Ned did not notice that she was starting to lilt to one side, and was barely in time to catch her as she stumbled. Trembling himself, he helped her into a chair, and when she gripped his arm, he could feel her icy hand through the fabric of his shirt.

"How did it happen?" she whispered. "Every detail. Tell me how it happened."

Ned closed his eyes again, truth and lordly duty warring in his mind. Finally, he told her—his words simple, his voice level—of the way he had sparred with Arthur Dayne. How Ser Arthur had disarmed him, how he had approached him, how Howland had injured him and how Ned had ended Ser Arthur's life with a dagger.

"My banner man did his duty to protect me," he said. "It was I who took your brother's life. Any fault is with me. Please bear him no ill will." She did not move for a long time, her face stone.

When she looked back at him, Ned thought she might strike him, her eyes were so sharp. He would have let her—he deserved worse—but after a tense silence her brow knotted, and something seemed to shatter in her face.

Ned felt something shatter in him too. Perhaps it was his heart. Perhaps it was only jagged shards of guilt. Not knowing what else to do, he reached into his tunic and pulled out the little shell Ser Arthur had pressed into his hand.

"He gave me this."

Again she froze, staring at the pearly glow of the thing, and then she pushed out of her chair, stumbled from the table and through another door, her uneven steps echoing in the empty hall.

**O~O~O~O~O**

Ned found her in a small courtyard alive with the sound of gurgling fountains. The river seemed louder here too, and the murmuring duet of waves and fountains filled the little space to the brim.

Ashara was braced against a tree, free hand over her mouth, heaving as if sick. For some moments he just stood under the doorway and stared, watching the grief rack her body. Part of him screamed to run to her and hold her and take away her hurt, but he could do none of that.

Finally, she seemed to sense his presence, and looked up at him. Her cheeks were flushed an unnatural crimson, and her eyes rimmed in red, though there were no tears. She took one staggering step towards him, then two.

"Where is it?"

"I'm sorry?"

"The shell. Where is it?"

Only then was he aware that he still clutched the thing. He opened his hand, and she took the shell from him as if in a daze.

"Did he say anything?"

"Only that he wished to be buried there. And that he was sorry about you, and-" He hesitated. She hadn't seemed to hear him, but when he did not continue she turned her amethyst eyes up to him.

"And my sister," he finished. She blinked, and then those eyes grew huge once more, and her brows knitted.

"Lyanna…and her babe…where is she? And Old Yli and Wylla?"

Ned told her, his voice blanketed by the waves and gurgling fountains, but again she was shaking her head.

"No, she—she is only seven months gone. She should not have started labour so early, I don't...no, none of this is real…"

Breathing alone seemed suddenly to burden her. She turned to him, her hands moving as if to reach for him, but then she balled them into fists and walked way from him to brace herself against the tree once more.

"I promised I would see her through this," he heard her whisper, surely to herself. "I told her I'd be with her, I promised I’d teach her how to throw blades…This is all a terrible dream. I will wake soon, and all will be well."

A stab of white-hot grief pierced him as if from nowhere, and Ned wondered how it was that he was not bleeding in truth, so blinding was the pain.

"I wish it were a dream as well," he heard himself say. She faced him, and in a blur of glowing silks she was before him, her cold hand on his. Her eyes were deep as the black water pool at Winterfell, and he wanted to lose himself in her and never emerge. Perhaps if they could stay like this, eyes locked, he would not need to face his cold truths.

"I am sorry. For Lyanna," she whispered. "So deeply sorry. There was so much life in her that I cannot fathom her gone."

Ned only nodded. When had it become her task to comfort him?

"Ashara, your brother, I—"

"No! Please, don't." She closed her eyes and pulled away quickly, as if shrinking from a fire. "I cannot…just do not tell me you are sorry too. He would hate to hear you to say so."

She was walking away now, shoulders rising with her breaths. At the doorway she stopped, but did not turn back.

"A servant will come take you to your chambers. I plan to send riders to fetch Old Yli and Wylla from the sanctuary. With your permission, they will bring your banner man and child here as well."

"I could not impose. Not after…" It was shocking she had not yet ordered him out of her home.

"It is not an imposition. My brother died to protect that child. The best place for him is here, where he will be cool and fed and properly cared for. Please pen a letter to your—your banner man, for my men to take with them."

When Ned did not immediately answer, she turned to face him, her eyes burning, her face tight.

"Gods be good, Eddard Stark, I mean neither of you harm! Must I swear it on Arthur's bones?"

"No! I did not mean—that was not why—my lady, please. I do not know what to say."

"Say nothing, then. And do as I ask."

Ned hesitated. "Tis simply that this is a large castle. I fear the child's presence would be impossible to keep secret."

"What secret is there to keep, my lord? You are a father with his newborn son."

Then she faded into the shadow of the corridor.


	7. Elephants, Someday

“Arthur, do you have to go?”

Ashara was seven. Ten days past, they had laid _Amma’s_ body out on the white stone pyre, and _Aba_ had held a torch to her purple robes until the silk came alive with flame.

When the fire died, she had watched her mother’s ashes being carried away on the sea breeze, whispering around them before disappearing forever into the horizon.

And now Arthur was leaving her too.

They were lying head to head on one of the pebble beaches tucked away below Starfall, the splashing of the waves the only sound filling the little cove. Her brother had his eyes closed, soaking in the sun like a lizard, but Ashara kept her eyes wide open.

She did not understand why he must go to King’s Landing.

“Why can’t you train with Ser Ryoon like you do now? You can’t even best him in sparring yet.”

“I do not leave for a better teacher,” he said, giving her hand a pat. “I go because it is a great honour to be invited. I’ll be training with the king’s master at arms, and I’ll be a companion to the prince. We are cousins, don’t you know?”

“But won’t you miss Starfall?” _Won’t you miss me_ , she wanted to ask.

He turned to her and opened his eyes, giving her a shrug.

“It matters not. It is my duty to bring honour to our house.”

Ashara wanted to tell him that she didn’t care one wit about the honour that her brothers and father so often spoke of. She could not see it or touch it, and she would much rather have Arthur home—to play with her and tell her stories using his array of character voices—than this elusive “honour” that she did not understand.

She kept her mouth shut. Perhaps before, she would have told him her thoughts, but if she did Arthur would only give her a patronising smile and tell her she there was much she did not know. _Aba_ had told her she must not be a little girl any longer, and Ashara was determined not to disappoint him.

“You will visit home often, won’t you?” She asked instead. Arthur frowned.

“I do not think I can. I’ll have many responsibilities, I imagine, and it is not a short trip to King’s Landing.”

“I wish I could go with you.” Ashara had never been anywhere beyond the Red Mountains and the Prince’s Pass, and when she looked out into the sea from the Palestone Sword, she wished she could know how it felt to sail into the open waters, bound for adventure.

She wanted to visit Sunspear and Oldtown, King’s Landing and Lannisport. She wanted to stand at the top of The Wall, and then she wanted to see Qarth and the Free Cities.

When she grew bored with Maester Bors’ lectures on grain production and tax collection, she would conjure images of all the places she’d learned of, and fancy herself an intrepid explorer who would travel the known world. Arthur would be with her, of course. She didn’t know how to fight with a sword, and she would get lonely if she went by herself.

It seemed all too attractive now. Perhaps if she left home for a while, she could get rid of this weight that had recently settled on her chest, and find it easier to breathe.

Arthur had given her a funny look.

“From what I have heard, King’s Landing is crowded and dirty. And it stinks.”

“I still want to see it. I heard the dome on the Great Sept is made entirely of glass and crystal, and the bells are bigger than elephants.”

“How do you know how big elephants are?”

“I don’t. I want to see elephants too.”

A spark lit in Arthur’s eyes.

“I’d like to see an elephant as well,” he admitted.

“Mayhaps when you’re done with this training, we can go see elephants together,” said Ashara, the very prospect bubbling pleasantly in her belly.

Arthur smiled, but it was a little sad.

“I’ll take you to see elephants someday.”

Ashara frowned.

“It will be very long before I see you again, won’t it?”

“Not so very long. A couple of years, I imagine.”

What was he saying? Two whole years? That was an eternity. Would he even remember her by then?

Ashara scrambled to her feet, an idea suddenly occurring to her. For a few minutes, she scanned the little pebbles, examining them while Arthur sat up, confused.

Finally, she found a perfect little shell and brought it over to her brother. It was barely the size of her palm, and a most true shade of pink, glowing pearlescent in the sun.

“I know necklaces are for girls, but will you find a way to keep this on you?”

Arthur had raised an eyebrow at her, skeptical.

“Why? What’s so special about the shell?”

Ashara bit her lip.

“I don’t know. I just like it best. I don’t want you to forget about me when you’re gone.”

Her voice trailed off at the end like a wisp if smoke, and she could feel herself blushing. But Arthur didn’t laugh or give her more confused looks.

He only nodded, and pulled out his dagger. Frowning in concentration, he bore a small hole into the shell. Then he picked loose the hem of his under-tunic and pulled out several long threads, twisting them together and threading them through the shell.

“Put it on for me.”

She tied the threads behind his neck.

“I’ll think about you every time I see it,” he said. “So long as I keep changing into clean clothes, you don’t need to worry I’ll forget you.”

He was teasing her, she knew, but Arthur did not tease nearly as much as Dev did, so Ashara did not mind it.

“Promise you’ll always keep it on you?”

“I promise, Ash.”

O~O~O~O~O

 _Damn him. Damn him to all seven bloody hells._

She had tried to pray in the sept, but each of the Seven seemed to be against her. Ashara doubted justice or mercy still existed in her world. The Smith could not mend her. The Maiden seemed to mock her with the irony of her heartache. She could not bear to look at the Warrior. Before the Crone, she had tried to light a candle for guidance, but her hand shook so that she burned her fingers, and then the flame had snuffed out.

And the Stranger…oh, the Stranger had words of advice for her, dark and cold like the wind that had whispered to her in the tower. More than ever she wanted to follow—to be light and free even for a few moments—and the desire frightened her into fleeing the sept.

In her chambers, Ashara had tucked herself into a corner chair and not moved for hours. She stared at the pale wall, but red crept in at the edges of her vision. She could not remember a time when she had been so light-headed with pure rage, but she clung to the ball of flame in her throat, because the burning masked the sinking despair.

Arthur’s shell cut into the palm of her hand, but that pain too felt cleansing.

_Damn him._

Her gallant brother. Her good, honourable, _fool_ of a brother. Oh, how easy it must have been to act as if he had no other option. How easy it must have been to stay at the tower and follow a dead man’s orders. How easy—to say he had no other choice and convince himself of the notion.

Men always had choices. When they chose their own selfish pride over life, and family, and mundane responsibility, they sweetened the choice with talk of honour. She wanted to dig Arthur out of the ground and strangle him herself.

His last words to her were still clear in her ears, blended with the wind and rustling sand. It felt as if they had spoken barely hours ago, so vivid did his face and image still burn behind her eyes. _Be careful on the road. I will see you soon._ She almost laughed aloud.

Oh, they said the great Arthur Dayne was the perfect knight. He always did the right thing. He always acted with honour. He was the image of loyalty, and served his vows and his prince to his dying breath.

But what of all the words he had spoken to her? ‘I will see you soon,’ he had said, so confident, and then he had not given her a single thought until his blood covered the sand and the ink of his death was dry.

She did not know if he was overconfident that he could control that battle under the tower, or if he was simply eager to die carrying out Rhaegar’s instructions to the letter. Likely, it was both. His pride won over all else. As it always had.

And then he’d had the _gall_ to send Ned back with that bloody shell. 

Ashara had never cared one whit if her brother was a true knight, or gallant, or the best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. She just wanted Arthur to be her brother. But she wasn’t ever enough. When was a little sister ever enough for boys with big dreams? She had always known that, hadn’t she? Ever since she was seven, and he had shrugged off the idea of missing home.

And yet it still hurt. Ashara reached blindly for the anger, holding it desperately to the sinking hole that was opening in her chest, trying to staunch the bleeding. She would not cry. Could not. If she let herself weep, she might never stop, which would not do. She had a delicate situation with Ned and the babe, and a castle to run before Dev returned.

Dev. She had written a shaking letter to him and sent off the raven, but she knew he would not return until his business in Sunspear was finished. Just as well. If she saw him too soon she might be tempted to strangle him as well.

She could already see his resigned frown when he read her letter. There would be no shock or anger in his grief, only his cold acceptance of the inevitable. _Every man must make his choices._ Dev had accepted Arthur’s long ago, and never once tried to dissuade him from it, for all that he was the only one who might have changed Arthur’s mind.

She felt herself shaking again. Good. Anger was good. Anger was hot and alive. The alternative was like those nights on Dragonstone: damp that chilled through the bones, as if one could never be warm again.

And Lyrie. Her poor baby sister. She would grow up with only the cool, erratic humour of their oldest brother, and whatever scraps of tenderness Ashara could manage to scrape from the shell of her being. Ashara did not think she could ever find it in herself to comfort another again.


	8. Do You Not Want Revenge?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TRIGGER WARNING for miscarriage references. 

**A/N: Trigger warning for miscarriage references.**

_Two days later_

Ashara sat on the hearth of the fireplace in the Great Hall with Dawn across her lap.She had not left her bed the day before, not even for the tower. She slept a leaden, dreamless sleep, interrupted by moments of waking in which she could not remember where she lay or who she was. Somehow, the sleep left her weak and bleary, but she could not neglect her duties any longer.

With a soft rag and a boar-hair brush, she cleaned the yellow sand and dirt from all the crevices near the hilt of the sword, then polished the golden stone that rose from the pommel like the rising sun. It was rather a miracle the sword still belonged to her family with Arthur slain in battle, but Ashara had never imagined there would come a day when she would be the one cleaning it.

“My lady?”

The sound of Ned Stark’s voice made her jump, and she nicked her thumb on the side of the pale blade. The sting of it bloomed over her hand.

In an instant, he was before her, pressing down hard on her thumb with her polishing rag.

“Are you alright? I did not mean to startle you.”

His hand was very warm, like evening sand, and Ashara found herself leaning into him before reality cleared her head and she forced herself away.

“Of course,” she said briskly. “Only a scratch.”

She rose, holding Dawn by the pommel, and gave him a most proper courtesy, staring at the floor.

“I thank you for bringing Dawn back to Starfall, my lord,” she said stiffly, her voice like sand in her mouth. “And for...burying my brother as he wished. My family and my house are in your debt.”

There was a stricken sort of silence.

“No, please, my lady that is not—please do not—I can’t—“ He sounded horrified. “It was the only thing to do. House Dayne certainly owes me nothing.”

“A lesser man would not have done as you did, and I know you well enough to understand the world is full of lesser men.”

Another silence.

Ashara did not know where to rest her eyes, but she was afraid to look upon his face. She knew herself, and she knew her heart. She feared she would not find the anger that ought to be there.

 _This man is the reason Arthur is dead,_ she tried to tell herself once more. _He and his bannerman. You must loathe him._

But when she finally found the courage to meet his eyes, all that washed over her was longing for a life that would never be hers. She had no more anger left, only regret. Was she to resent the bannerman for protecting the life of his lord? Was she to blame Ned Stark for giving Arthur a quick end? She could not even hold on to her rage at Arthur for being so careless with his life.

_He killed your kin. Do you not want to take revenge? Does your blood run so cold?_

Perhaps it did. Her brother was dead, and here was his killer, a guest she’d accepted under her roof. Yet all she thought when she looked upon him was that he was not at fault.

She must be going mad. Or just frozen. Reason was always so cold, yet she could not help yielding her human heat to its unfeeling depths time and again. That was comforting in its way. When one was cold enough, one did not feel.

“Were you lost, my lord?” Ashara forced herself to ask.

He shook his head.

“No. I wished to speak with you—ask you some things—and your servant pointed me here.”

Lyanna’s son. He wanted to ask her about keeping his secret, she realized. She thought again of his plan to call the babe his own bastard, and her heart ached. He would have the world believe he broke his marriage vows to keep his promise to his sister.

Ashara nodded.

“If you’d wait a moment.”

She turned back to the fireplace, built with ornate white-stone blocks. Stepping up on the high hearth, she lifted Dawn onto its glittering pegs, careful not to cut herself again. Arthur, naturally, had been most diligent in the upkeep of his blade. Her thumb still throbbed.

“This way, my lord,” she said as she led the way behind the high table once more.

“Does the scabbard for Dawn not rest with the sword?” Ned asked. Ashara shook her head.

“When a new Sword of the Morning is chosen, he has his own scabbard made. When he—“ the word caught in her throat. “When he dies, the scabbard is burned with the body.”

With Arthur, there would only be the scabbard to burn. In his burial, too, his duty had come before family.

She led him to the Murmuring Yard directly this time. Her ancestors had built the courtyard behind the Council Hall to facilitate discreet conversation, and the sound of the waters masked any words from would-be eavesdroppers. She bade him sit near a fountain.

“I take it you wish me to list the people who know your secret,” she started without preamble, eager to fill the discomfiting space between them. “You have met them all, save my lord brother. I trust all four with my life.” She hoped that meant something to him.

He hesitated.

“Even Wylla?”

_Especially Wylla._

“Did she not seem trustworthy?”

“No, only, she seemed rather…talkative.”

“She is smarter than she appears. She only blathers on about trifling things.” He looked unconvinced. Ashara pursed her lips.

“She was my handmaiden from the time I went to King’s Landing until Lyanna arrived at the tower. She has seen me through rather many things, and never said a word.”

Ashara remembered those lifeless evenings in her chambers on Dragonstone, staring at that ornate wooden box. There was a cold, damp pit where her heart once beat, and her only sensation was the warmth from the brazier Wylla burned at her feet.

For a moment Ned did not seem to understand, and then she watched the realisation hit him like a slap.

“At Harrenhal as well?”

“Yes. Like I said. Never a word.”

“But…she did not recently have her own child, then? How can she be a wet-nurse?”

“Old Yli has herbs. It is not an uncommon thing. Any woman can nurse a babe.”

 _But sometimes there is no babe to nurse, even when the woman has milk to give._ Her own breasts had been full and aching for a sennight after the stillbirth, and many times a day Wylla had needed to change the fabric binding her chest, when they grew wet at baby Aegon’s crying.

Her answer seemed to satisfy him, but Ashara spoke again.

“Regardless of trust, it might be best if I send them with you when you sail. Wylla, at the very least.”

He opened his mouth to protest, but Ashara shook her head.

“You will not have anything prepared for the babe. And Jon will need a wet-nurse for the journey.”

A curious crease appeared between his brows.

“I will have a nursery prepared before I return. I’ve already sent word back to Winterfell.”

“You have? But how—”

“I have a son, my lady.”

It was like someone had poured the fountain over her head.

“You…you need not speak in codes here, my lord.”

“I speak truly, and not of Jon. My…wife…bore me a son.”

All the air gushed from her lungs, and Ashara had never been so grateful for her years masking her heart at court. Somehow, she managed to stretch a smile over her face.

“My congratulations,” she heard herself say as if from the far end of a tunnel. “You must be elated, to be blessed with an heir so soon.”

Yet even as she spoke, something did not seem right with Ned’s expression. Even with Lyanna’s death, surely the birth of a son would bring some semblance of joy to his face. He looked sullen as stone.

“My wife bore me a son. And then she died.”

“No.” The word slipped from her mouth in a whisper, and again, without thinking, she reached for his hand. “Oh, Ned. Your wife and your sister, I…oh, I cannot tell you how sorry I am.”

He nodded mutely, and Ashara saw his jaw tighten. How much loss could a person bear in so short a time?

Suddenly she saw her own hands, white as the Palestone Sword, clutching the wooden box with the tiny bones. Elia had tried to stop her seeing the babe, saying it would haunt her, but Ashara had pleaded.

Her head had been smaller than her own palm, her hands barely larger than her thumbnail, yet each finger had been perfectly formed, tinged with a beautiful, haunting blue. She had counted all her perfect fingers and toes over and over…her perfect, perfect girl, perfect in all ways save that she did not draw breath.

No one had been able to tell Ashara what she had done wrong, and no books at Starfall could provide her answers. _Sometimes a woman is not suited to bear children,_ one tome had read, and Ashara had fled the library. Elia has stroked her hair and insisted it was not her fault, but if frail, delicate Elia could bring two healthy children into the world, what was wrong with her own body?

Ashara would have gladly died if it meant her babe could live. For a wild moment, she thought she might like to say this to Ned. Would it bring him comfort to know Lyanna and Lady Catelyn might have thought the same? 

_Comfort_ , she thought bitterly. Was it only days ago that she wished Ned here to give her comfort? Surely the gods were laughing at their clever little joke. And yet why did she want even now to lay her head against his tunic and feel his arms around her shoulders?

She became aware of his thumb stroking circles over the back of her hand. It felt right. Thawed her.

_He killed your brother. He married another. He is not meant to be yours, Ashara Dayne._

She pulled her hand away, even as a little voice whispered that he was married no longer. The voice was ugly and selfish,but still she heard it.

“Do consider my offer about Wylla, my lord,” she said stiffly. “Please believe I only want what is best for Lyanna’s son. I...I held great affection for her.”

He looked up at her, searching.

“Did you spend very long with her?”

“I arrived when Rhaegar left. Five moons, perhaps.”

“I am grateful. You had every reason not to, given your friendship and your loyalties, and yet you did her a great kindness. I thank you.”

She wanted to shake her head and tell him that she had gone because of him, because Lyanna had been his beloved sister. Instead, she shook her head and said,

“I did what was right. She was sixteen, with child and alone. She would have done the same for me. Or another woman.”

That drew a little smile to his lips.

“Aye, she would have.”

“Did she tell you how things happened? That she was not kidnapped?”

A shadow fell over his brow, and she could see his jaw tighten.

“She tried to. She was...weak, at the end.”

Ashara tried not to imagine smiling, buoyant Lyanna lying in blood, pale as death and fading. Turning her eyes down to the coloured garden tiles, she recited all Lyanna had told her of the entire misfortune—how Aerys had thought her a traitor and sent his guards after her near Harrenhall; how Rhaegar had learned of the arrest and stolen her back to avoid war; how she had tried to send messengers to Lord Brandon and Lord Stark, but none had reached them; and finally how they hid in the ruins of Summerhall, not daring to emerge for fear of the king’s soldiers, learning of news when things were too late. She had fallen in love with the prince then, and the prince with her, and they had married before a weirwood tree.

“You must see it was not her doing,” said Ashara, when she saw how Ned’s expression had grown hard. “I would not have told you all this if I thought you’d blame her.”

“I do not. Not for my father and brother.” He wiped a hand over his face. “But she should not have—he already had a wife! What was she thinking? And why did she not try harder to find me?”

Ashara shook her head. His eyes were rimmed with red from her words, and she wished she could take them back and tell him she knew nothing at all. But he deserved all the truth she could give him regarding this. He had nothing else of his sister left, nothing save Jon and this truth.

“What could she do in the midst of war? Cross enemy lines and pick through your camp herself? As for Elia—you will find a letter when my men bring back Lyanna’s things.” She had not thought of the scroll Lyanna had shown her for some moons now, but it had been just like Elia to send such a thing to her husband.

“She was weak from her pregnancies, and could give Rhaegar no more children. I do not understand it, but they both agreed adamantly he needed another. When they told her she could not be with child again—I have never seen her go so white. So it seems she wrote to them, and gave them her blessing.” Elia had done her duty in her marriage, but passion…no, there had only been affection between them, lukewarm and placid.

Now Ned looked as if she had sprung three heads.

“But they were married,” he said stubbornly. “How could the princess...?”

“She never loved the prince the way your sister did. If nothing else you can trust me in that. And I saw the letter. It was in her hand, and in her character.” Arthur himself had ridden though the Kingswood in the dead of night to bring the letter back, and had refused to tell Ashara any more when she had pressed him.

 _Damn him,_ she thought again, her teeth grinding. Her brother, and Rhaegar, and their bloody secrets.

“It doesn’t matter,” said Ned. “No Septon would ever consider such a marriage valid.”

“No, it does not. But they did not do it for that. You sister—she wished to be bound to him before your Old Gods.” Lyanna’s eyes had sparkled when she had said so to her. “He was the only bit of happiness she had left.”

Ned had his forehead in his hands, and he looked at once like an old man burdened by the world and a boy lost in its tragedy. On instinct, Ashara extended her hand to draw him to her, for she desperately wished to cling to him and soothe both their hearts. At the last moment, she withdrew.

There was a bloody war tearing her conscience in two, the wound stinking of guilt and longing and the helpless irony of her life. She rose.

“Good day, my lord. You are welcome to the castle grounds and gardens. They might bring some solace.”

O~O~O~O~O

The following day, Ashara shook Allyria awake before dawn and helped the drowsing child into white hemp mourning robes, tying a long, pointed hood over her head.

Allyria’s eyelids drooped, but she gave Ashara a lazy grin.

“These hats are so silly.”

“I know, love. We’ll only have to wear them a little while.”

“You look funny in yours, _Ata._ You should keep it on.”

Under the fish-belly white of the sky, Ashara led her sister down to the docks, where Ryoon was waiting with one of the little catboats.

“Why are we going sailing in the dark?” asked Allyria.

“We aren’t. We’re going to the Ling.”

“Are we going to visit father and my mother?”

“You can put a flower by their stones if you’d like,” said Ashara, helping her into the boat as Ryoon untied the dock line.

Allyria nodded, and spent the short time on the water nodding off back to sleep on Ashara’s shoulder.

The catboat needed little navigating as it flowed out with the tide. This far downstream, the estuary was dotted with stony outcrops rising from the foaming water, some overgrown with plantlife, others bare and pale—a landing for seabirds. The biggest outcrop her ancestors had named the Ait of Ling. Its formations were blanketed with a grove of junipers and pinsapo pines, and no one knew if the trees had grown naturally, or if some long ago Dayne had planted them amid the the rocks.  
  


“Tacking, my lady,” said Ser Ryoon as he turned into the island.

“Duck you head, love.” Ashara gently pushed Allyria’s head down with her own so the boom could pass over them. Ryoon eased the boat into the stone dock on the ait, and Ashara nudged her sister onto shore.

“Look Lyrie, the sea daffodils are up.”

Her sister’s eyes lit up.

“My mother loved them, didn’t she?”

“Yes. Do you remember how to get to her stone?”

Allyria nodded.

“And would you place some flowers for our father and my mother as well? Do you remember where?”

“Alright.”

“Be careful where you step, and come back here before the sky starts turning yellow.”

Her sister disappeared in a blur of white. The girl had never known her mother, who had died after a fall from a horse not long after her birth. Ashara herself remembered little of woman who had been her stepmother for two years. She was spending most of her time at Sunspear then, coming home only for a turn of the moon each year, but the woman had been kind, always wore white daffodils in her hair, and was not unlike her own mother, whose memory was but a faded tapestry.

Near where they had docked was the funeral pyre, on which the family had burned their dead for ten millennia—or so the stories claimed. It was carved from the same stone that had built the foundations of Starfall, and could resist even dragon fire, as the Targaryens had learned when they could only melt the roofs off the castle. 

Already Ryoon was setting twigs and moss upon the smooth white stone, and Ashara retrieved Arthur’s scabbard from the boat. They had no real need for a true pyre of wood. There was no body to burn, though Ashara was glad for the scabbard, at least. What strange debts her family owed to Ned Stark now, but her ancestors would be placated. The dark wood of the scabbard was smooth and worn under her hands, and she ran her fingers over it absently as she laid it on the kindling.

When Allyria returned, she led her sister to the pyre.

“Do you remember our brother Arthur, Allyria?” Arthur had not come home to Starfall in years, and before that, he had made only short visits.

Allyria’s brow crinkled.

“Is he tall?”

“Yes, very tall.”

She nodded wisely. “I remember him. I sat on his shoulders in the town once and I could see the tops of everybody’s head. And he likes pomegranate cream tart and orange cake.”

Ashara almost laughed.

“How do you know that?”

“You always say. When we have pomegranate tarts and orange cake you always say, ‘oh, Arthur would be sad to miss this’ when we eat them.”

“I do, don’t I?” Arthur always did have a sweet tooth. “Do you know what Arthur was, Lyrie?”

She thought for a moment.

“Maada and Rena sometimes say Ser Arthur Dayne has Dawn and is the best knight in the Seven Kingdoms and brave and also v…valint and never loses a fight. And I’m lucky he is my brother.”

Ashara found herself digging her nails into her palm so she would not shake.

“He was all these things, love. He was a knight of the Kingsguard. They wear white cloaks and swear to protect the king and his family with their lives. Did you learn about that with Maester Bors?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Arthur always did his duty. It was the most important thing to him. And in doing that duty, he…he died.”

Allyria frowned again.

“He went where my mother and father went?”

She swallowed past the burn in her throat.

“Yes, love. Yes, he did.”

“Are we here to visit him too?”

“We are here to give him funeral rites. Now, come here.” She led her to the pyre. “You see this? This was his scabbard, which he used to carry Dawn. We will burn this, and its ashes will carry his spirit out to sea, where it will join those of our ancestors. Do you understand?”

Her father had once said those words about her mother, and Dev had once said those words of her father. It was calming to explain such things to her little sister. Ashara was thankful the words came so easily.

“Yes.”

For a few moments they waited, and when the first rays of the sun burst above the Red Mountains, setting the water alight, Ashara touched the torch to the little pyre.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies if you're getting impatient for them to like, just speed things up. I am also impatient, but I want the story to progress naturally even more. Just know that if you're frustrated, I'm even more frustrated. You're not exactly getting a slow-burn, but uh...hopefully things pay off in future chapters? IDK guys. Also, I've realized I'm really awful at naming chapters. Like, why did I start doing that? Should I stop?
> 
> Lastly, I'm sort of realising I'm in a little over my head. If any of you would like to Beta for me (helping mostly with plot development and character arcs), please let me know. I will...idk, name a character after you? Let you name the future direwovles? Name a direwolf after you, if you're into that?


	9. The Gods, Laughing

_Some days later_

Howland was recovering. They would be fit to leave Dorne soon, though Ned had taken to cursing himself daily for failing to notice the extent of his injury from Ser Gerald Hightower. When the Starfall guards had returned from the sanctuary in the middle the night, Howland’s skin had been nearly too hot to touch, and he had almost fallen off his horse in the bailey yard.

The Rhoynish healer Yli had done what she could, but the crannogman had been stubborn and understandably mistrustful, and had not let her look at the wound until the pain became unbearable.

At the castle, the old woman had set to work at once with her array of distillations and fermented pastes, and Howland was soon out of danger. Still, Ned felt a sickening chill down his spine every time he thought of his fallen bannermen, and the possibility Howland had faced of joining them. They had been seven on that boat sailing up the Wyl. Ned could still remember Willam Dustin and Theo Wull laughing too loudly in the night. Now he and Howland were the only two left.

In the bailey yard, Ashara had only directed her servants to see to Howland’s care, but Ned had seen that she did not once look at his friend.

 _She believes blame for her brother’s death lies with Howland, and not with me_ , he realised, and Ned could not help the tinge of relief this knowledge brought him, though it was nearly engulfed by shame. He should have lied--was it not his duty to protect his bannerman, especially in the deeds he had done to save Ned’s life?—but he had looked into her gemstone eyes that day in the courtyard, and the truth had tumbled out.

This woman still drove him out of all reason and duty. It was a blessing the castle was so large, and the servants sent his meals to his rooms. If he had to see her more often, he did not think he could stop himself from pulling her into him and not letting go again.

Ned did not know how Ashara kept herself from crumbling into grief and despair. Perhaps it was the same force that kept him determined to face every morning on his feet, no matter how very close he felt to collapsing during all hours of the day. In their conversations by her fountains, Ned had seen the cracks in the armour she had donned against the world—against him—and the staunch bravery on her paling face had twisted at him until his heart bled. 

But what could he do? What could either of them do? Their lives and loss were laid out before them, like footsteps imprinted in stone.

Walking to the nursery to see Jon, Ned was just outside the open door when he heard Ashara’s voice from within. He froze.

“…and the tops of their heads are very soft still. Do you feel the bone at the top of your head?”

A pause.

“Yes,” came the sweet voice of a child.

“Newborn babes have a gap in the bones up there. That is why we must always keep the cap on him, and be very careful when we hold his head.”

“There’s a hole there? But…” The child was tapping on her own head. “But how does his brain stay in his head?”

Ashara laughed, and Ned had not realised how he had missed the buoyant sound until it echoed in the nursery. His throat was suddenly tight, and he ventured a small step into the room like a moth drawn to flame.

She was sitting in a wide chair angled away from the door. Next to her, a little girl with wheat-coloured hair sat on a tufted stool, too busy studying the babe in Ashara’s arms to notice Ned standing in the doorway.

“The skin on his head, I suppose,” Ashara was saying. “We shall have to ask the maester to explain in detail.”

“Do you think he’ll know? Maester Bors never teaches me about babies.”

“The maesters know a great many things, love. In the other kingdoms, it’s usually maesters who aid women giving birth, so they must know about babes and childbirth.”

“In the Reach?”

“Yes.”

“And the Stormlands?”

“Yes.”

“And, and the West…Westerlands, and the Crownlands, and the Vale, and the North, and the Iron Islands, and…and the…” Ned could hear the frown in the little girl’s voice, and he almost laughed aloud.

“Think fish, Lyrie. Where do fish live?”

“Oh! And the Riverlands! Their lord is the Trout.”

“Very good, love,” said Ashara, and Ned could hear her smiling. In her arms, Jon made a gurgling sound, and the girl who must be her sister Allyria bounded from her stool to stand over him.

Ned dared another step, and now he saw the clear outline of Ashara’s face as she peered at Jon cradled in her elbow.

His breath stopped. Afternoon light spilled through the windows, and in the golden glow her face was incandescent with soft joy. Her eyes were downcast, a small smile lifting her mouth, and she looked at Jon as if all the secrets of the gods lay in his face.

Ned tried not to even blink, so desperate was he to ink this image in his mind. He had never seen anything so beautiful.

“Did I used to be that little?” asked Allyria.

“I don’t know, love. When I met you, you were already six moons old, and could sit up on your own.”

“Is Jon going to grow a lot when he’s six moons old?”

She did not answer right away, and New saw her sink her teeth into her lower lip.

“I don’t know. Jon is not going to be at Starfall for that long, I’m afraid.”

“He’s leaving?”

“With his father, yes. When Lord Stark’s bannerman is all better, they will be leaving.”

“Is Wylla leaving with Jon? I like Wylla I don’t want her to leave.”

“I cannot be certain. It is up to Lord Stark, and he has not told me his intentions.”

“But Wylla has to go with Jon.”

“Why is that?”

“Rena says Wylla is Jon’s mother. You always say mothers go with their babies if they can.”

Ned heard a sharp intake of breath, and it was not until two pairs of purple eyes turned to pin him did he realise it was he who had gasped. His face heating at his eavesdropping, he gave them both a short bow .

“Apologies for interrupting, my lady. My lady.” The second he addressed to Allyria, who promptly blushed. Ashara stood slowly to face him, still holding Jon, and the image was another Ned wished to sear into his mind.

She returned a shallow curtesy, and next to her Allyria was reminded to do the same.

“No apologies needed, my lord. I trust you are here to see your son.”

Ned cleared his throat.

“Yes. Is he…have you been with him long?”

She smiled again, like rain in the desert, and shook her head.

“An hour, perhaps. Lyrie wanted to see the babe, so I sent Wylla to rest a while.”

Ned nodded, still staring. Ashara returned the stare above Jon’s head. Then she said,

“Would you hold him?”

“Oh. Um, yes.”

She glided towards him and Ned held out his arms. He was still awkward and stiff holding Jon, fearing that he was too soft and small, and one wrong movement could damage the him.

Ashara stood very close to him, and as she leaned in to give him the babe, his senses were awash with the sparkle of her eyes and the velvety light on her cheek and the deep sweetness of her skin. He took in a shaking breath and focused his eyes on Jon. Grey eyes stared up at him, inquisitive as usual, and shiny as river pebbles, the same way Lyanna’s had shone when some curiosity caught her fancy. For a moment he was lost in them, thinking perhaps he looked at his sister once more. Then Jon yawned, and Ashara laughed again.

“He has not fussed since we came in,” she was saying, but Ned barely heard her. He felt wonderfully drunk and dizzy, and strode over to take Ashara’s seat in before the cold hearth. In a swish of robes, she followed him, and for a long while, Ned stared at Jon as he made squeaking noises and waved his pink hands about his head, aware the entire time of Ashara’s warm form at his shoulder, feeling her beaming at them both.

Finally, her voice came to him, but it sounded wrong. Thick and muffled.

“We’ll leave you with your son, my lord.”

Ned looked up, and saw with a pang that she wore her stony mask once more. _You needn’t be guarded before me,_ he wanted to tell her, though he had long lost that right. _I would never hurt you._ He had never wished anything to be true so desperately, even as he saw in her eyes the wounds she carried, and knew he had wielded the blade.

“You needn’t. Jon…Jon seems to like you here.”

She cast her eyes to the coloured tiles.

“Wylla should be back soon. And I’ll need to return Allyria to her lessons. Come, Lyrie.”

The little girl, who had been studying the tiny knitted shoes Wylla had found for Jon, looked up and pouted.

“Barley growing cycles are boring,” she muttered as she dragged her feet to Ashara and took her outstretched hand.

Ashara gave her little shoulders a pat. “I know, love, but since you eat bread, it is only right you should know where it comes from.”

She offered Ned another bob of a curtsey.

“My lord. Lyrie?”

The little girl curtseyed.

“G’bye, Lord Stark.”

“Have a good lesson, my lady,” Ned said, trying for a smile before nodding at Ashara. As they left the room, he heard the little girl’s high voice echoing off the stone.

“But _Ata,_ will you tell me two stories if Maester Bors says I remember all the stages in order?”

“If you can recite both winter and summer cycles, yes.”

“Two stories with special voices and everything?”

“Yes, love.”

“I’m going to practice: seedling, emergence, tillering…”

That night, Ned saw Ashara in his dreams, wrapped in furs before the fire at Winterfell. She held two babes in her arms, murmuring some indistinct story to her sons as she rocked in her chair, the firelight gleaming on her dark hair. When he entered, she looked up and smiled her divine smile at him.

“I’ve missed you, my love,” she said. “Come, take one of them. My arms grow tired.”

O~O~O~O~O

She found him the next morning in one of the gardens beneath the castle, this one patterned with flowering quince trees and bushes of red blossoms. The rich scent of the blooms hung in the air like mist, but Ned found that the bright sun and colours buoyed him from sinking into despair alone in his chambers.

“My lord?”

He stood as she approached.

“My lady.” She wore blue robes today, the colour of the sky, and her hair tumbled loose and free about her shoulders. Again he noted how much fairer she appeared, almost pale, though the walk to the gardens had put a glowing pink in her cheeks.

“My brother has written from Sunspear,” she said as she motioned him to sit back down next to her. In her hand was a letter.

“I hope his reply will mean you have no reason to refuse our ship back to Storm’s End once your bannerman is well enough to travel.”

Ned felt his stomach tighten with the frustrated guilt, now so familiar. He should not be accepting any more of Ashara’s kindness, especially as the death of her brother still loomed over them like a dagger, but Ashara had been right when she had first broached the subject. He had no other better means of returning to Storm’s End, not when all Robert’s ships were with Stannis and headed toward Dragonstone.

“I am grateful, my lady.”

“Hm.” Her expression wry. “My brother does not offer out of kindness, my lord. He would have you speak to King Robert on our behalf.”

“Oh? I would carry any message you desired.”

“Tis more than a message,” she said, looking down at her scroll. “He has asked that you emphasise my family’s good will to the new king, and that you stress Arthur was only doing his sworn duty. That you explain we are not a threat to King Robert’s reign.”

Ned frowned.

“I don’t believe Robert thinks you would be.”

“Neither do I, but no doubt you must tell him whom you found guarding your sister, if nothing else…We are not asking you to tell falsehoods, my lord. You have lived at the castle and been through the town. I hope it is obvious my lord brother wants only to protect our knights and smallfolk, and for everyone to go about their lives.”

He felt his frown deepen. Surely Robert would not act retribution on all the houses with members who had fought for the Targaryens. Aerys had been the rightful king, after all. It would be wholly unreasonable.

Still, he nodded.

“I will tell him what I’ve seen, my lady. Please write to Lord Dayne that he need not fear retribution for Ser Arthur’s role in the war. As you say, he only did his sworn duty.”

“I thank you. Our ship is ready to sail whenever you are. How fares your bannerman?”

“Your healer tells me that we best wait another day or two, to ensure everything is mended under the skin.”

“And have you considered my offer? Old Yli tells me she would be more than happy to come with you with her son and granddaughter. She has never left Dorne, and would like to see the North.”

“You are kind to offer, but surely you have need of her skills here.” The woman used medicines Ned had never even heard of, but Howland was recovering very quickly for the way his wound had looked, and not once had Ned seen him show any signs of pain.

“She has had many students over the years,” Ashara said. “That is why I sent her with Wylla and Borsyo. We can spare her, I assure you.”

Still, Ned shook his head.

“No, my lady, I thank you, but there is no need. I would not impose on your hospitality any more than I already have, and I trust them, if you do. But Wylla…”

“Ah, so you do have some good sense after all.”

Surprised, Ned forgot this next words for a moment. She had not teased him thus since those days at Harrenhal, and a wonderful warmth bounced in his chest.

He offered a small smile in response.

“You were right. Jon will not have anyone to care for him on the journey, and it is only reasonable that she come along, if she is willing,” said Ned, remembering to avoid speaking too directly, for they were not in that murmuring courtyard.

“She is. And…and I take it you heard my sister in the nursery yesterday?”

“Yes, my lady.”

“I hope you do not mind the talk. It was a most logical conclusion, and I have seen no reason to quell the rumors.”

Ned nodded, though already the idea of his siring a bastard rankled. He would have to get used to it. He would have to get used to a great many things.

“Again, I am so very grateful to you, my lady.” He watched her lips thin, and added quickly, “You and your family, I mean. I...I do not deserve…But I want what is best for Jon, and you are right about all of it.”

She shook her head and closed her eyes, a faint crease appearing between her brows.

“I know you do. This is no favour. And such is the tangled web of misfortune around us, Ned Stark, that it has long been beyond a matter of deserving. I…I do these things now solely to ease the unbearable pain, for there is a gash on my heart. There is no reason to it.”

  
She had not meant to say something so vulnerable, Ned could see, but he was grateful she did. At once both reached for the other’s hands, and all he could hear was her trembling breath.

Unable to stop himself, or perhaps not wishing to allow himself a chance for reason, he lifted a hand to her face and ran his thumb along her cheek. She seemed to lean into him on instinct, and for a moment her eyes closed and her lips parted, almost in a smile.

On one of the nights they had snuck into the godswood at Harrenhal, they had sat on a fallen log like this, the air singing with the smells of a forest awakening to spring. In the moonlight, her eyes had shone silver, and he had been lost in them as he told her of his hopes for his future.

They had been modest: a keep on his father’s lands, perhaps, and regular visits to Winterfell and Storm’s End. He would aid his father and Brandon in keeping the king’s peace in the North, and travel in their stead, and ensure the smallfolk who lived on his lands were fed and warm in the winters.

Robert had shaken his head at these plans and told Ned he was a bore, that surely he would want to have adventures before he got old. Ned had shrugged. He did not mind the idea of adventure, especially if they were with Robert, but he was not restless and intrepid like his friend.

He had taken a chance in telling Ashara. He had not known her more than three or four days then, and when he was done, he had stopped breathing, waiting for her to speak, afraid her face would fall in disappointment. Instead, she tilted her head and asked,

“If we are married, would you let me help in all these tasks? They do teach us girls more than needlepoint in Dorne, and I am a good rider.”

From their first dance, he had realised she knew more about the world than he could fathom. On every subject from Braavosi politics to mine construction in the Westerlands she was knowledgable and had something to say, and when Ned listened to her animated conversation he felt as if she could show him the whole world with a turn of her hand.

And she was quick, so quick to tease him without malice, and Ned could not help matching her grins every time.

“Of course I would be grateful for your help. You are certainly smarter than I am.”

She smiled at him then as if in wonder, as if he were some miracle and she could not believe her luck. Perhaps he had seen girls look at Brandon thus, and Robert, and he felt he was in a dream.

“Perhaps I am, Ned Stark, but it takes a smart man to admit as much. ”

They had both laughed, and her eyes had danced.

“I would be happy to live anywhere so long as you are there, Ned,” she had said, so softly he had not been sure if he heard right. But then she had closed her eyes and pressed a kiss to his hand, and Ned had somehow known he was all she needed.

In the garden at Starfall, she wore that same expression now, as if with his hand on her cheek he could soothe all the pain of her grief.

“I wish everything had been different since I last laid eyes on you, Ashara. Sometimes I wish it were so with such vehemence I think the gods cannot possibly deny me, but then I open my eyes and everything is still…as it is.”

“Oh, Ned.” She opened her eyes, and Ned felt their touch in his soul.

When he spoke his voice was rough.

“Do you…with what I have done, do you think… you could ever…”

“I don’t know. Do…do you?”

“I can think of nothing save that I would very much like to kiss you.” The words were out of his mouth before he had even understood them himself. She did not look away, only parted her lips.

He kissed her, softly, wondering distantly if he even remembered how. But once her soft mouth was on his all hesitation fled, and soon his hand was in her hair, the intoxicating scent of her filling his nostrils, the taste of her like wine of his tongue. She pressed into him, her hand coming to stroke his neck, and the little sigh she made in her throat lit something hot and sharp in his chest.

He did not know or care how long they were tangled thus, joy and heat humming through them, but eventually they came up for air. Their eyes met again, and for a moment, her eyes danced as they had in that godswood, as if the pain of the war had been but a nightmare. It was the same for him. He felt light and full, as if he had grown wings and soared above the clouds.

Ned opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, something shifted in her eyes—settled, or came back into place. At once she closed them and pulled away from his hands, and when she looked at him again, they had hardened to the jagged points of the amethyst they so resembled.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, almost bewildered by her own reaction. “I should not…you should not…that was unwise.”

Her words were like Northern winter winds lashing his bare skin, and Ned flinched.

“Ashara…”

She let out a breath that sounded like a sob, and buried her face in her hands, her body shaking.

“Ashara? I...don’t understand.”

When she looked up at him, he could see the open wound she spoke of written in the devastation on her face.

“I don’t think I can.”

“What?”

“You ask if I could ever return to the way we were. I don’t think I can.”

Oh. And he fell back to the earth, his limbs leaden, his heart dropping into the abyss opening in him.

He did not know how long they sat there, cold and rigid, neither able or willing to move.

Finally, Ned spoke.

“It is I who should be sorry, my lady.”

His voice was like the snapping of a dead tree.

She turned away, her hair tumbling to hide her face.

“Do you think the gods are laughing at us? Sometimes I think about the past two years and I too want to laugh and laugh.”

“The gods are cruel. Yours and mine.”

She gripped the stone bench, her knuckles as white as death.

“Your bannerman had no choice at the tower, but I cannot bring myself even to look at him, injured as he is. You had no choice in any of it, but I cannot help imagining, over and over, Arthur bleeding in the sand and you shoving a knife into his skull. And I feel I am drowning.”

And there was nothing left to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, baby Jon and baby Allyria were so fun to write. I hope I got some child behaviour right. I had to do a lot of Youtube research, and now I want a baby.


	10. To Live

She should not have let him kiss her.

That was the one thought that circled like a vulture about her mind for the rest of the day and into the next. She had spoken to him truly, for when she had returned to her senses, all she could see in her mind was Arthur dying in the dust and sand. How could she stand such a thing for the rest of her life?

And how could she still love the man who had ended Arthur’s life? Was she truly so wicked? Yet everything he did and every word he said to her only made her hold Ned Stark dearer to her heart.

She should not have let him kiss her, but she could not find it in herself to regret it. It had been a terrible mistake to find him alone in the gardens to begin with. She should have known how weak was her conviction, but her skin had screamed for his touch, and for those few moments in his arms, she had been afloat with warmth, and light as a seabird. 

But it mattered little. He was leaving the next day, and despite the cloudless sky this afternoon, Ashara could hear her heart slowly cracking. Up in the tower room of the Palestone Sword, she looked out over the sea and hoped the view would free her. Yet even up here, she could not breathe. What was there left to breathe for? What use was trying?

The wind whispered their dangerous, soothing words.

Absently, she ran her thumb along the edge of Arthur’s shell, letting it dig into the skin. She had taken to wearing the thinning piece of string around her neck in the past days, because every touch was a sharp pinch of pain, and even that felt good against the numb grey.

Elia was dead. Arthur was dead.Her daughter was dead. Perhaps it was a sign of sorts from the gods. Perhaps she was not made to love others. It seemed a dangerous gift, her heart, and perhaps she would serve everybody best if she were carried away by the wind and sea.

A high pitched cooing sound came through the window behind her, and despite all Ashara felt a pleasant squeeze in her chest. Sure enough, when she peered out the north window, she saw Ned in the garden below, Jon’s spring-coloured hat peeking over his shoulder.

She had thought she could never be warm again after the despair of yesterday, but the sight of the babe was like a candle in the darkening corners of her heart. She was in love with the child, she knew, for all that it had been mere days since she had first seen him clinging to Wylla’s chest.

More than once she wondered how sweet it would have been had her own child lived, and though the very idea made her curl up in a ball amid her blankets, she could not help her own imagination.

But Jon would be leaving the next day, too, and Ashara knew they would take the last semblance of her lifeblood out to sea. Already she could feel the ghosts around her, and part of her wanted their cold hands and ashen touch—wanted to let herself wilt and die too—so she could keep their company.

The sound of the babe fussing floated up through the window now, and he sounded on the verge of crying. Wylla seemed nowhere to be found, but before Ashara could grow concerned, Ned had begun pacing the little garden courtyard, bouncing as he walked, the deep timbre of his voice melding with the babe’s as they floated up to her window.

Ashara watched them, transfixed, and for a moment joy bubbled so pure in her throat that she wanted to laugh. Ned would not be like any father she knew. He would not observe from his high seat and act as some giant his sons could only view from afar—not for two babes without mothers. He would hold them and coo to them when they cried, and he would raise them to be good and kind and warm, just like him.

And if their daughter had lived?

Suddenly, she could not let him leave, not yet. Tearing her eyes away from the window, she flew down the stairs, nearly tripping in her haste. She ran through the little courtyard below the tower, her sandals pounding the white stone, and burst into the little lemon garden, her breath heavy in her ears.

Startled, Ned turned, and she could see the surprise in his eyes. What a mess she must look, but Ashara did not have the spare mind to care. In his arms, Jon too turned his eyes towards her, then proceeded to blow bubbles with his mouth squished together like a duckling.

Ashara heard herself laughing, though perhaps it was a sob. She turned back to Ned.

“I would speak to you, my lord. I would—I would show you something, before you leave. Where is Wylla?”

“Here, milady,” came a voice on the other side of the fountain. Wylla’s hurried from the far side of the garden, sewing basket on her arm.

“Wylla, would you take Jon for now? My lord?” Ned looked dazed by her sudden appearance, but after a few blinks turned to Wylla and passed Jon into her arms. In a wayward moment of affection, Ashara leaned down and kissed the babe’s soft forehead, then his little hand.

She led Ned down to the docks, her head spinning, feeling as if she watched her body from above. _Are you really going to do this?_ asked the small, cold centre of her rational thought. _You’ll break before him—you’ve already shown cracks—and if you do there won’t be any going back._

But she was beyond caring. He had every right to know, and may what followed have mercy on them both.

**O~O~O~O~O**

The docks below the castle smelled cleaner than any harbour Ned had every visited—of sharp salt and balmy wind. Ashara had nearly run from the garden after giving him a look as fervent and hot as the sun, leading the way down here, giving him no chance to ask questions. She was like a woman completely changed from the day before, and Ned was not sure what to think.

Now she motioned him over to the smallest sailboats Ned had ever seen, tucked away on the far end of the dock, their single sails bound to what Willam Dustin had taught him was called the boom.

“Have you sailed a boat since we parted, Ned?” she asked, breathless, eyes flashing hard and bright, and he felt a little jolt down his back at her use of his name.

“Nothing so small, even with my bannermen up the River Wyl,” he said faintly. “I simply held the lines handed to me. I’m afraid I still know nought else.”

“It’s no matter. Just hold things and duck your head when I tell you to.”

Obediently, Ned eased himself into the hull of the sailboat, feeling it sway beneath his suddenly boneless legs. The water had never agreed with him, but he would certainly not say so to Ashara. Particularly not now. She all but hopped in after him and promptly set about adjusting lines and sail as if she still walked on solid ground.

In a few moments, she was undoing the dock lines, and the boat began drifting out into the river. She reached for the tiller, moving it lightly back and forth, then handed the smooth wood to Ned.

“Hold this in place, if you would.” She adjusted the tangles of lines until she had hoisted the sail up, catching the wind. As the boat picked up speed down the river into the open mouth of the estuary, the sail swung off to one side. Ashara, sun-coloured robes rippling in the wind, slipped down to sit beside Ned, one of the lines hanging loosely from her hand.

Ned had known, naturally, that she could sail. Starfall was an island at the mouth of a river. Out of necessity if nothing else, it was logical that the Daynes used boats as often as they did horses. She had told him as much, buthe had not expected how capable she was. He did not much like sitting still with his hand on a wooden stick while she did everything else, but he would not know how to make himself useful if his life depended on it.

His mind leapt to that afternoon at Harrenhal, when he had asked her to tell him of Starfall.

“In a way, it is less home than Sunspear,” she had said with a wistful smile. “I was there perhaps a quarter of each year before Elia’s engagement, and it was always too quiet without the princess and my other friends. Still, I am a Dayne. The mountains and water are in my bones.” 

She had told him of her earlier childhood, then—of how Ser Arthur would take her riding through the Red Mountains or sail them into the open sea with only a catboat.

“When Arthur took his vows, he rarely came home to visit, so I took to riding and sailing alone,” Ashara told him, and she had looked so resignedly alone that Ned’s heart had ached.

Now, in the boat, she turned to him, and her face was soft. “Do you remember when I told you of Starfall, back at Harrenhal, and you said you would love to come sailing with me?”

So she, too, had the memory at the fore of her mind. Ned nodded mutely.

“I am glad for this,” she sighed, almost too softly.

The water glittered like scattered gems, and the wind was fresh against his skin and through his hair. Around them, various outcrops of rocks passed by, and in the distance came the sound of a gull cawing, followed by the crisp closing of wings. All was blue—new and clean and good.

“As am I, my lady.” He hesitated, wanting obstinately to reach for her again even after her words the day before. “Where are we going?”

“I wish to show you something,” she said, the softness slipping from her face. “I should have done so when you first arrived, but I’m afraid I’m rather a coward.”

Ned frowned.

“I don’t think such a thing could ever be said of you,” he said, thinking of her brave face when he had told her of Ser Arthur’s death.

“Careful, Ned. Don’t make your pronouncements until you know everything.”

They settled into a restless sort of silence, listening to the splashing of water against the hull, Ashara pulling lines or letting out the sail as the winds shifted. Soon they neared the largest of the rocky islands, and Ashara bid him duck his head as the sail swung over them and the boat turned into the worn stone dock that looked millennia old.

She threw the dock line. It caught the iron cleat, and Ned pulled them flush against the island as Ashara let down the sail and bound it to the boom.

“What is this place, my lady?” Ned asked as they stepped onto shore. A grove of gnarled old trees grew amid rocks blanketed in moss and clovers. A little ways from the docks was a block of the same pale stone Starfall was built from, milky white and glossy with age. It was at least ten feet across, and there seemed to be smudges of soot still clinging to its surface.

“My ancestors called this the Ait of Ling. Daynes have been cremated here for as long as anyone can remember, and every Dayne’s name is carved onto a rock here, even the daughters who married into other houses.”

Ned had not a clue what to say. He could not fathom why she had brought him here. To see Ser Arthur’s grave? For what purpose?

She must have seen the question on his features, but she only gave a determined nod and bid him follow her as she picked along the stony path into the grove. The air was scented with sharp juniper sap and pine resin, solemn and grave, and the trees soon grew so thick that sunlight only poked through in narrow beams.

Along the way, Ashara bent to pick a little bunch of marigolds and buttercups, tying them together with a ribbon she pulled from her hair.

As they walked, Ned caught glimpses of names chiseled onto stone, followed by symbols he did not recognise: _Davos, son of Ulerick and Jyanna Fowler, Sword of the Morning; Dyanna, daughter of Allyria and Garth Gardener, Princess Consort of Dorne; Clarisse, daughter of Adevar and Loreza Martell, Lady of Starfall._

The island may have been significantly smaller than Starfall itself, but it was still large enough that one could not immediately see the water on the other side. Slowly, it dawned on Ned just how many names were carved onto these rocks. It was said the Daynes had ruled the mouth of the Torrentine for ten millennia—thousands of names must lie here amid the pines and junipers.

Ashara stopped them before a small cluster of rocks. In front grew a half circle of cheerfully plump mushrooms. Ned followed, and for many moments did not comprehend what he was seeing as she laid her flowers before the flattest of the rocks.

_Galina, daughter of Ashara and Eddard Stark._

“Ashara?” It hurt to speak. His mouth was dry as sand, and he felt submerged in icy water in the dead of winter, the cold biting into his gut.

“I named her for my mother. She was little more than five moons old when I miscarried.”

“You…our…” Words would not come, stuck in his throat as bile bubbled beneath them and burned with each breath.

“I did not know,” he finally said dumbly. “You never told me.”

“I dared not write you,” she said, eyes still fixed to the stone, voice flat. “Noone save Arthur and Elia knew I had lain with you at Harrenhal. At first I hoped our marriage would still stand, somehow, and then…”

“How did it happen?” Ned did not know how he could still stand on his own two feet and form speech with his tongue. His body was not his, and the world was edged with sickening black, as if he viewed it all from the end of a long tunnel.

“Nobody could tell me. I was fine—for months I felt in perfect health, not even sick in the mornings. Then, one night I felt a chill coming on, and suddenly, the next day I…All they told me was that—” her voice broke, “—was that sometimes this happens. There was nothing I could do. Even Old Yli says so. But that cannot be, can it? Elia nearly died birthing Aegon, but both her children were strong and healthy and alive, yet somehow, I—”

She had folded in on herself, one hand over her mouth, the other supporting her weight against the rocks. No longer caring for anything else, Ned lunged forward and drew her into him. For a moment she tensed, looking up at him with panicked eyes.

She was shaking like a dying leaf, and Ned clutched her tighter, hoping the weight of her against him would somehow ease the white hot agony that must surely be his heart ripping out of his chest.

“Oh, Ashara…”

Something seemed to break in her at her name, for she stared at him for a moment longer, and for the first time since his arrival at Starfall he saw her face crumple. Then she was crying hot tears into his doublet—great, soul-wracking sobs that poured forth all the grief of the past years and threatened to draw tears to his own eyes.

“Shh,” he breathed. “Shh, it’s alright. I have you.”

His words only made her weep harder, and through her gasps all he heard were her apologies, over and over.

“No, my love, don’t say that.” His voice was rasping, and his throat closed painfully. “It cannot have been your fault.”

“But…”

“Shh, trust me. You must not blame yourself.” She turned her face up to him, and her skin was flushed and damp, her eyes red. Again his heart pulled as he thought about the pain she must have carried alone all these moons, and again at the child he had left her with, a child who would be no more.

For what seemed a black eternity, Ned held her as she wept, and it was not until she had stopped trembling and gasping for breath that he spoke again.

“If anything, you must blame me. I should not have been so thoughtless.” The words cut like bits of a broken glass.

Slowly, she shook her head, and he felt her hands clinging to the fabric of his clothes.

“Sometimes moon tea does not act as it should. I have been taking it for years, and still…” She sank her teeth into her swollen lip. “But I was so happy, Ned, when I realised I was with child. So incandescently happy, and so certain it was a gift from the gods. Should I blame you for the miracle we created?”

He knew nought else to say, so he kissed her forehead and pressed her into his chest once more. There they stood, amid the silent pines and memories of ghosts, clinging to one another for all that had been lost.

**O~O~O~O~O**

“Did you mean your words when we parted at Harrenhal?”

Ned and Ashara had returned to the boat and left that little island. Without saying a word, she sailed them out into wider waters until Ned could see the southern edges of the Red Mountain cliffs that dropped into the sea. He had not protested. Here on this boat, on the sparking waters, with just the two of them and the wide sky above, Ned imagined the cruelty of the world could not reach them.

She had dropped the sail, and for what felt like hours, they lay in the boat listening to the sounds of the sea. Her head was tucked in the crook of his shoulder, and her hand had slipped beneath his doublet to cover the spot where his heart beat, its heat seeping through his shirt to his skin.

“Which words, Ash?” He thought he knew, but dared not ponder why she asked.

“That if you could find a way, you would marry me. Did you mean it?”

He heard his own intake of breath, and pulled her in closer, so she would not change her mind.

“Yes.”

He felt her eyes on his face.

“And now?”

He opened his mouth to respond, but her hands clenched over his heart, and she spoke again.

“Before you answer, you must know I cannot give you what I could before. I’ll have no influence at court, while you will no doubt be sought after by every lord in the realm for your friendship with the new king. And—and my brother no doubt told yours of our lands.

“My house is ancient, and we used to be kings, but now we keep to ourselves and do the best we can. We are not like the Yronwoods, and certainly not like the Tullys, with their fertile farmlands and endless groves. Our people produce enough grain and fish to feed themselves, and enough fruit to make life worthwhile. The only thing we have in any real abundance are peppers and grapes. You cannot support your whole North through a winter with peppers and wine.

“I…I would not fault you if you must think first of your people.”

It took long moments for her words to settle, and when they did Ned tightened his hand on her arm.

“We are not so helpless in the North,” he finally said, voice stiff. “And my son will be heir to Winterfell. Hoster Tully would not let his grandson inherit a crumbling land.”

He shifted their weight so he could look her right in the eye, so she could see the truth of every word.

“I swore to you, and I meant every word. I want you for you, Ashara. Not for influence. Not for resources. It was true at Harrenhal, and it is truer now.”

It was all his duty would let him say aloud. A hidden, selfish corner of his heart knew that he could not give her up again, no matter the consequences and no matter what she could bring the North. Not now that he had tasted what it was to lose her.

But he refused to form the words. If they stayed hidden, perhaps he could pretend that he still held honour and duty above the heart she held in her hands.

“If you can…if you can bear the things I’ve done—”

“I forgive you,” she said, her hand lifting to trace his cheek. “For all that it was never your fault, I choose to forgive you. It will not be perfect, and I do not doubt there will be moments when—when I still imagine…but I want to live, Ned. I want to love you and find joy with you, and I want to be a mother to your son and nephew. And if…if the gods are kind, I want to carry your children and hear their laughter ring in your beloved Winterfell.”

Her eyes sparkled, almost blue from the sea and sky, and her face was aglow with divine light.

“Then marry me, Ashara. Marry me as it was always meant to be.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

He rose over her, letting himself sink into her deep, still eyes, and when he kissed her it was sweeter than he had ever tasted. They moved slowly, or they tried, both wanting to savour every touch of skin on skin. But it had been so very long, and they had kept themselves so tightly rigid and frozen. The fire roared to life in his belly, hotter than the sun above them, and soon they were fumbling with ties and buttons, the boat rocking beneath them.

Her mouth was on his neck and his chest, and everywhere she kissed and sucked his skin pure pleasure bloomed to life. His hand found her breast, her nipple already hard like a pearl in his palm, and he made a rough sound that lifted a whimper from her throat.

“I’ve dreamed of your hands on me,” she breathed in his ear. “And your mouth. Would you...oh…” He had complied, licking down her neck and scraping her nipple with his teeth.

The deep scent of her swirled around him, rich and sweet. He was drunk on it, and on the impossible softness of her skin on her breast and down her stomach. She groaned his name. Her voice was fuller now, and every sound she made stoked the fire even hotter. All the blood was rushing between his legs, his trousers growing painfully tight. 

She pulled him up to face her, and he was again so lost in her exquisite eyes that he nearly jumped when he felt her hand undoing his trousers and brushing against him through the fabric.

“Gods, Ned, I need you inside me,” she whispered, and then her hand was on him, guiding him into her, and they both groaned at the contact. For a moment he thought he would spend right then. When they had lain together at Harrenhal, he had been secretly grateful he had given in that single time at six and ten, and gone to the brothel with Robert.

He had not so embarrassed himself with Ashara at Harrenhal—even as the pleasure of her around him had been a thousandfold what he had felt with the girl in the vale—and he certainly would not now. 

Ned braced himself against the smooth wood of the boat, calming his breath and studying her face. She bit her lip. Her face was flushed, and she squirmed with impatience. When he had finally gathered his wits, he moved within her, once, twice—and she groaned again and rose to meet him, her body suddenly wild against his.

They clutched each other as their lips met and their bodies rocked in desperation, and Ned wanted to press her close enough that she would meld into him, so they would be one being tangled together always.

Her moans were so sweet in his ear, and soon they grew to a peak before she fell completely silent, taut and trembling in his hands, her body pulling at him in waves. His own cry was rough and almost anguished as he spilled into her, but nothing had felt so right in a long, long time.

They rode out the storm together, and he stayed in her for many moments afterwards, pressing kisses onto her skin as her breath feathered over his neck.

When she had recovered, she locked her eyes into his, and in one motion rolled them over so she lay atop him. Her fingers drew a line over his chest, and Ned shivered.

“Yes, Ned Stark. Yes, I will marry you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. That was my first actual smut scene, like ever, so be kind guys. 
> 
> Now, if you can believe it, this prologue is not actually over. There are political shenanigans still to come.
> 
> Again, if you'd like to beta for me, please let me know. I will shower you with love.


	11. PROLOGUE II: The Lies We Tell

_Sunspear_

_Some Days Later_

“Oberyn!”

As the dinghy pulled into the Sunspear port, Ashara easily spotted the yellow-clad man standing at the forefront of the party come to meet them. His hand was raised in greeting, and as soon as the boat was steady he pulled Ashara up onto the worn dock and into an embrace so tight it squeezed the air from her lungs.

“Oh, Ash,” he said, pulled back to look at her before kissing both her cheeks and her forehead. “The sight of you is like water to a lost desert wanderer.”

“Ever the poet,” murmured Ashara, half distracted, her focus on taking in his beloved, familiar face. It had been a mere two years since they parted at Harrenhal, but he seemed to have aged ten. There was strain pulling at the corners of his eyes and mouth, and his features were sharper than she’d ever seen them.

“You’ve gotten too thin,” he frowned, studying her face in return. The frown hardened his face even more, making him appear more like an inured desert warrior than the carefree Oberyn she knew.

“And you look like you are thirty, Oberyn. Neither you nor I wear grief well.”

The frown deepened, and he closed his eyes, his face etched with pain.

“No, I suppose not.”

Immediately she regretted her words. It was unlike her to speak so thoughtlessly. Seeing Oberyn again had opened a sort of dam in her heart, and suddenly she was not strong enough to carry on facades and pleasantries. She just wanted to cling to him and cry and wail until her throat was hoarse.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

He smiled a bitter smile.

“Elia’s death hangs in the air around me no matter if you bring it up or not. And you…” he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear and cupped her face, his eyes softening. “I cannot imagine how you have been surviving.”

For a moment, Ashara thought she might weep right then, on the dock and in front of all the servants and guards. He must have seen her lip tremble, for he gave her a familiar chuck under the chin.

“But come,” he said, louder now, steering her toward land with an arm around her shoulder. “Let us not stand in the sun. We are all surprised to see you, and we are eager for your news.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

She met Dev outside Prince Doran’s solar, and her remaining brother silently enfolded her in his arms, holding her for a long while. She buried her face in his doublet that always smelled of medicinal herbs, and imagined she was a child again—a child who believed Dev could fix anything.

“Dawn is cleaned and returned to its place?” he asked under his breath.

“Yes.”

“You’ve burned his scabbard?”

Ashara swallowed hard and nodded.

“And the stone carver?”

“I sent him to the Ling the morning I departed.”

“Good. Good.” He gave her shoulder a squeeze. “Come then, let us not keep the prince waiting. We are both eager to hear about Eddard Stark’s visit, and why you’ve come here at all.”

Inside the prince’s solar, Ashara tried to hide her shock as she curtseyed to Doran. His face was too worn and hallow for a man barely past thirty, and already flashes of grey dotted his hair. Like Oberyn, he showed signs of strain at his eyes and mouth, and deep lines carved the space between his brows. He had never been handsome as Oberyn was, but now there was not even youth left in his features.

The prince had caught her flash of shock, as he caught everything else, and gave her a wry smile.

“At least I am still recognisable,” he said, extending a hand to help her rise, though it was more gesture than fact. His grip was soft and loose.

“You have my deepest condolences, Lady Ashara. Ser Arthur was the finest knight I ever met, and all of Dorne took pride in his honour and deeds.”

Ashara curtseyed again, feeling herself stiffen at his words, for all that they were kindly meant.

“Thank you, my lord. And you have mine. For Princess Elia. And her children.” Her tongue felt stiff too, and words were difficult to force out.

“Come, sit my dear. You need not be so staid. None of us here are in doubt that you mourn them as Oberyn and I do.”

She sank into one of the couches beside Dev, forcing her eyes off the floor to face the curious gazes of the three men who most shared her pains.

"Ned Stark has told me exactly how they killed Elia, and the princess, and the babe," she said, tucking her hands beneath her legs to stop them shaking.

"I want justice, as I’m sure we all do. Lord Stark is in King's Landing once more. I believe he can convince Robert Baratheon to deliver it without Dorne raising a single spear."

Three pairs of eyebrows shot up into dark arches, and absurdly, Ashara wanted to laugh.

"And why would he do such a thing?" asked Oberyn. "They were nothing to Stark."

"Because I am going to marry him."

**O~O~O~O~O**

She had taken Ned up to the tower before he left Starfall, and there Ashara had finally gathered the courage to ask if he had seen Elia's body. She had asked if he thought she had suffered. What a stupid, bitter question that had turned out to be.

He had wanted to lie. Like with Arthur, she could see his deliberation plain as ink on parchment, and reminded him as much.

And then she had regretted asking. His words had rung like menacing bells in her head for days, and she had to remind herself that knowledge was always better than ignorance. They were a bloody mess on the floor. I could not bear more than a glance.

When the dizzying shock of the blow had subsided, the rage had set in, and Ashara had wanted to choke the life from each man responsible with her bare hands—wanted to squeeze until their faces turned black and their eyes popped from their sockets.

"Do you know…who…?"

Ned had shaken his head.

"All I know is that Tywin Lannister brought the bodies to the throne room. Said that his bannermen had taken it upon themselves to prove their loyalty to the new king this way. No doubt there are whispers in the camps now, or perhaps the Lannisters have made the names known, but I did not stay to find out."

Revenge. Desire for it had burned like ice on wet skin, and she had needed to brace herself against the roaring rage for long moments. She wanted to slaughter every single one of Tywin Lannister's family in retaliation. She wanted to cast her throwing blades into their eyes and nail their hands to the wall, then cut out their hearts and toss them into the sea. Make Tywin Lannister suffer for the acts of his men.

No. It was a voice cool and clear in the depths of her mind. No, Elia would not have wanted revenge. Elia would not have wanted innocents to suffer—or anyone to suffer, really—least of all for her sake.

"Would you help me?" she had asked Ned when her heart had settled back into place and the pain of breathing had eased. "Obtain justice for Elia?"

Elia would have asked for justice, nothing else.

"I know it is much to ask, and you have great distaste for such political manoeuvrings."

He had kissed the palm of her hand.

"I want to see justice done, as you do," he said. "Nothing could warrant such brutality, and I would sleep easier if we had fewer evil men among us."

"You will have to skirt around the truth with Lord Arryn, and maybe even lie to the king," she finally said, studying his face for any sign of distaste. "They are as close as your family, I know. If you cannot bring yourself to lie—"

"Tell me what I must say. I will do my best."

In that moment, she did not think anyone could love another as deeply as she loved Ned Stark.

**O~O~O~O~O**

_King’s Landing_

“She is here?” Robert’s voice was choked as he stared down at the chest Ned had set before him. “Her bones?”

Ashara had put Ned on a nondescript ship to Storm’s End, and Howland and Jon on another, sparsely manned and bound directly for White Harbour. If the gods were good, amid the chaos of the dwindling war, no one would quite know about Jon’s existence until he appeared at Winterfell, and the rumours would bear non real basis. She had thought of it all, and Ned wondered what he would have done had he and Howland been forced to trek back through the mountains—and how he would have explained the babe in King’s Landing.

The castellan at Storm’s End had put Ned on a fishing boat so he could make haste back to King’s Landing. He had interrupted a meeting in the throne room, carrying Lyanna’s bones in a box and beyond caring about anything.

Now he could only nod in response to Robert’s question, the fresh wave of grief for Lyanna’s passing knotting in his throat. Again he saw her face, white as snow, her eyelids struggling to stay open as she begged him for his word. He must not fail her.

“What took her? Did she suffer?”

“Fever,” answered Ned, grateful he had rehearsed his words over and over on the ship from Starfall. “She was barely holding on when I got to her.”

“Did she say anything? Did she…for me?”

Ned felt his arm reach out of its own accord and clap his friend around the shoulder. How he wished he had the talent for telling lies, not just for Lyanna’s sake anymore, but for Robert, whose pain soaked through his words.

“No. I’m sorry Robert. She wished to go home, nothing more.” Ned ground his teeth hard, hoping his voice had not changed at the lie, but he need not have worried. Robert seemed barely to hear him. When his friend turned, his face was so contorted he looked almost feral, his eyes rimmed bright red.

“Once was not enough. Would that I could kill thez silver bastard again and again.”

Ned stood very still, his face stony, careful not to betray any of what he knew. The lies and truths unsaid burned like wildfire in his gut, and for a moment he did not know how he could carry out the plan he had discussed with Ashara. How could he lie to Robert and Jon thus? Already it was agony, and he had not outright said a falsehood.

But then Lyanna’s panicked eyes flashed before in his mind, tinged with smoke and roses and metallic blood, and it was followed by the princess and her children on the floor of this very room, the red of their blood cutting like knives into his vision.

These lies had to be told.

“The image of her was what kept me going all these months, Ned,” said Robert, half collapsing onto the stone steps leading up to the throne. Ned thought that perhaps Robert himself believed the words, though Ned certainly knew better. Robert was made for war, made for battle and command and conquest. And there was, of course, Robert’s own pride and rage.

All their months on campaign, he had not once wavered in his conviction that he would wed Lyanna when they rescued her from Rhaegar, and for that Ned had been grateful. Yet Ned knew Robert too well. The man had not fought this war for his sister, no matter what the bards would write.

“I wish things were different, so different.” It was all he could manage to say.

That night, Robert met Ned in the king’s solar, followed by a page carrying an entire casket of wine. And though he was careful to ensure he kept his wits, Ned had to concede that the drink dulled the constant ache he had grown so used to he sometimes forgot it was there.

Robert, with no concerns for his own wits, let the wine wash them out the tall windows. He toasted Ned’s new son, toasted Catelyn, toasted Jon Arryn—“though damn the man for putting me on that bloody chair”— and ended the night sobbing onto Ned’s shoulder about the life he had planned to live with Lyanna.

“I even told Stannis I’d name one of my sons after him, if he stopped walking about with a ship mast up his arse,” Robert muttered, his words slurring.

“And what’d he say to that?” asked Ned, imagining young Stannis’ stolid glower and resolutely ignoring his most recent meeting with Robert’s brother, when his face had been sunken and yellowing from the hunger of the siege.

“Hah! The little shit said he’d prefer I didn’t. Said he couldn’t bear it if his namesake acted like me. Can you believe him?”

Ned let himself laugh. It was not hard to do with his vision blurring and a nice, wine-warm glow settling in his belly, and Robert’s laughter had always made Ned want to join in.

Some time later, Robert, his eyelids drooping, had clapped Ned on the shoulder so hard that Ned, unprepared, nearly fell over.

“Maybe you were right. About the children. They were just babes. And the woman wasn’t even a Targaryen. But what’s done is done, Ned. I’m not shrewd like Jon but even I know I can’t make an enemy of Tywin Lannister now. Jon keeps yapping on about the Dornish, and their anger. If they refuse to bend the knee, we’ll need Lannister men.”

Ned clenched his teeth so he would not tell Robert that if Lannister men had not murdered an innocent woman, Dorne would not be so hostile.

And even the thought of Tywin Lannister’s grimly satisfied face made him feel soiled somehow. Was that the man Jon and Robert must keep close now. Never had he been more glad that once this was all over he would return north and never have to contend with court politics again.

He doubted Robert would remember saying this the next morning. Still, his softening seemed to bode well for his and Ashara’s plan to play out when next they were sober. But Ned did not want to dwell on the lies he would have to tell soon, and not just to Robert, but to Jon, whose eye was sharper than Robert’s by bounds.

He filled both their glasses. Robert nodded approvingly, then held his cup high.

“Another toast then, to my Lyanna. We could have been brothers in truth, Ned, but you’ll always be my brother anyway.”

The man had been more than a brother to Ned since they were eight years old. Ned hoped that tomorrow, this would be enough.

**O~O~O~O~O**

The next day, Ned, despite his pounding headache, spent the morning questioning his soldiers to see if they had heard of Princess Elia’s killers from the Lannister camp. He did not have to dig deep. The camps were rife with rumours, and he soon had the names of Armory Lorch and Gregor Clegane, the Mountain.

Late that afternoon, he requested an audience with Robert and Jon, and when both were seated and eying him curiously, Ned took a fortifying breath and launched into his practiced recitations.

“I believe there is a way to resolve our troubles with Dorne. Right away. Within a moon’s turn. And Tywin Lannister will gladly play his part if only we offer him what he most desires.”

When he had finished his explanations, Jon was nodding thoughtfully, though Robert’s was scowling.

“I believe it might just work,” said Jon, tapping his bony fingers on his knee. “Doran Martell is not unreasonable, and Tywin Lannister should be too tempted to turn down the offer. If I read him true, his legacy means more to him than life itself.”

“I don’t see why we must play these trading games with Dorne,” muttered Robert darkly. “It’s clear they’ve lost. Doesn’t matter how many men they’ve got. Are they about to fight the rest of the realm? I’ll crush them if they dare.”

Ned bit his tongue to keep his face skill, but it was Jon who spoke.

“The Targaryens could not conquer Dorne for centuries, your grace, and they had dragons. If we can solve this with little bloodshed, it is best for all.”

Robert still looked mutinous. It was as Ashara had predicted then, and Ned thought she might frighten him if he did not know she her motives.

Grimly, he turned to Jon.

“Could I speak with Robert alone? Would you mind, your grace?” Jon gave him a curious look, but his shrewd eyes darted between his foster sons for a moment, and he nodded, wordlessly leaving the room.

Now Robert turned his scowl on Ned.

“Look, Ned, I know what you think about the way the Targaryens were killed, but what’s done is done, and they had to die. I commended Tywin Lannister in front in that damn throne room. How would it look if I turned around and condemned them?”

Ned steeled himself for the lie.

“Robert,” he began, meeting his friend’s eyes full on. “I’m asking as a favour. For all our years together. Please.”

Robert narrowed his eyes.

“What’s gotten into you? You didn’t even know the woman or the dragonspawn.”

The world shot another pang deep in Ned’s chest, but he stubbornly ignored it.

“No, I didn’t know the princess. But do you recall a Lady Ashara Dayne at Harrenhal?”

A reluctant smirk.

“Of course I do! Rare beauty, that one. Your brother was trying to fix up a marriage for you, and you couldn’t even ask her to dance!”

Ned did not know if he wanted his face to flush at the memory or not, but either way it was beyond his control. He had never told an outright lie to Robert, not once in their years of friendship. The reminder still gnawed, even as he realised it meant Robert would have no reason to doubt him.

“I still want to marry her, Robert. Truly. And now I can. But she was bosom friends with the princess, and she won’t have me unless I can bring her killer to justice. So I’m asking, Robert. That you do this for my sake.”

For a moment Robert stared at Ned as if he had sprouted three heads and a demon’s tail. Then his laughter filled the solar, booming and hearty and full.

“Oh, seven bloody hells, Ned, I never thought I’d see the day! Hah! To think, Ned Stark. moon-arsed over some woman! Alright, alright, I’ll do this for you, you stone-faced bastard! Tell Jon to summon the Dornishmen. We’ll get you married yet!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is “moon-arsed” actual nonsense that I made up on the spot? Yeah. Soz. 
> 
> Guys, don’t @ me. This is not going to be some brilliant plan, and I’m sure most of you have guessed exactly how it’s going to play out. It honestly feels like the only logical thing Jon Arryn should/could have done given what everyone thought about Dorne’s military might. How he managed to placate Oberyn in canon without conceding…ANYTHING is beyond me. Or maybe I’m missing something, in which case I’m sure someone will let me know. Another reason I need a beta. Please. Someone? Be my beta?  
> In terms of Ned being a liar liar pants on fire…Is it healthy to be willing to bend one’s principles for someone you love? On the flip side, is it healthy to love someone because they’re willing to set aside their honour and tell lies for you? To their best friend no less? Who knows, man? I’m not writing a morality tale here. It’s what Ash asked Ned to do, he was willing to do it, and Ash being Ash thinks it’s terribly romantic. 
> 
> Besides, he is lying for a good cause. It isn’t JUST because she asked him to. He would have done this in canon if someone had pointed the way to him, or so I’d like to think. But Ash loves that even more. Nothing like a man who’s willing to put aside pride and honour for what’s right, right? It’ll be a long while and a few hard lessons before Ned really learns the ways of politics and self-preservation, but baby steps, guys, baby steps.


	12. Twenty-Eight

"Your Grace, I would truly like to be of service, but I simply cannot accuse my loyal bannermen without proof."

Tywin Lannister was his slippery, evasive self regarding the handing over of Lorch and Clegane to justice, and Ned was having trouble keeping his distaste from his face. Robert had summoned Lannister to his solar that morning, and Jon had laid out his request to the man, saying nothing of incentives, but appealing to the need for a quick peace.

Predictably, Lannister was not inclined to be of help.

"Lord Lannister, surely you must know who the precise killers of the princess and her children were. Surely your men who brought them to you are knowledgeable, if not the guilty ones."

"Lord Arryn, when I saw the bodies, the room was full of my men-at-arms. No one outright took credit. I truly cannot say which individuals did the deed, and I must admit, it is likely we will never know. An invasion is a rather messy, chaotic thing, especially as Lannister forces were at the vanguard."

Ned's jaw tightened, and not only at the man lying through his teeth, for he had garnered the names of Lorch and Clegane after a mere hour of inquiry in the Lannister camp. Tywin had purposefully outpaced Ned's own army, entered the city through treachery, raped and pillaged his way through the city, and now presented his deeds as valorous.

The man seemed more alley cat than lion.

Jon seemed to understand too that Lannister would not be moved by anything short of tangible benefit.

"Lord Tywin, surely you cannot deny that your son, Ser Jaime, a sworn member of the King's Guard, slit the throat of the mad king."

Lannister's pale eyes narrowed.

"He did what was necessary. Would you not say so, Your Grace?"

Robert made a gruff sound of assent. Jon only smiled placatingly, his greying beard and lined brow giving him a distinct look of harmless benevolence.

"That is all very good, Lord Tywin, but surely you must see that he broke his vows. Here in this solar, among friends, we can acknowledge that he did…not a bad thing. But to the rest of the realm, he is still an oathbreaker."

"Hah! And likely the first kingslayer," said Robert, chuckling. "I'll tell you this much, they'll be repeating stories of Ser Jaime for decades."

Even Ned could see that Tywin Lannister's face had darkened at Robert's interruption, and Jon hurried to continue.

"Of course, there is no precedent for this, but perhaps His Grace might find he simply cannot have Ser Jaime remain in the King's Guard. He might have no choice but to release him from his vows. Of course, we will have to consult the maesters and the law books…"

Here Jon let his voice die, and looked at Lannister's face as his words sank in. Lannister's face barely shifted, but there was a dark glint in his eyes now.

"I see." His murky green gaze shifted from Jon, to Robert, and even to Ned, and Ned could feel the hair rising on the back of his neck.

"I see. Well, Your Grace, perhaps my men might know more than I thought. I shall have to question my bannermen, but perhaps we can…bring the perpetrators to justice."

Robert smiled triumphantly. "Good man, Lord Tywin!"

"I do insist, however, that anyone I produce is given a fair and public trial, and not simply handed over to the Dornish. This endeavour is in the name of justice, is it not? Surely not a way for the Dornish to enact their own petty revenge."

It was Jon's turn to narrow his eyes, but in the end, he nodded.

"The Dornish will be here within the sennight," he said. "I am sure they will agree. As you say, it is in the name of justice that they come."

Robert had waved them from his solar with a conspiratorial grin at Ned before pouring himself a large goblet of wine. They were barely out of earshot of the chamber when Jon motioned Ned onto one of the palace loggias for "a quick word."

He took a breath, his heart was suddenly high in his throat. Jon had caught on to something. He usually did.

"Well, I must say, Ned, this plan of yours has worked out remarkably well thus far."

Ned only nodded, eyes fixed on his hands.

"I am most impressed. I had thought my lessons on politics had bounced off you and Robert like rain on a tin roof, but it seems I was wrong."

Ned braved a look up at the man who perhaps knew him better than his father had. One of his snow-white brows was raised in an amused sort of question, and Ned knew at once that there would be no hiding from Jon.

"I had some help. With this plan." An uneasy pause. "You're not wrong about the lessons."

"I see," said Jon, though he had likely already known. "I assume your trip to Starfall was more fruitful than you expected."

Ned felt his face flush, and he tried to pull an explanation from the words jumbling on his tongue.

"I want justice for those children and the princess," he insisted. Jon only pressed a hand to his shoulder.

"No need to say more, son," he sighed, his blue eyes kind. "I know you do. I would like the same. But I know too that your boy will need a mother. And, if Lady Ashara planned this negotiation from a single meeting with Robert and Tywin Lannister's reputation alone, it seems to me she would do you some good."

"I…uh…aye," he said rather stupidly. "I think she would."

"Well, then. I'm sure the Dornish will be right as rain soon." And Jon Arryn ambled away down the corridor, chucking under his breath.

**O~O~O~O~O**

The sun was too bright. Someone was surely beating war hammers against the inside of her skull, and Ashara had to muffle an agonised groan. Oberyn had brought his strongest sour wine into the ship cabin Ashara shared with Larra Blackmont the night before, and the three had drunk the whole casket in Elia's memory, remembering stories of her well into the small hours as the ship swayed beneath them.

It had felt good. For some fleeting hours, the warm glow of the wine had filled the ugly gaping hole where Elia had once lived.

Now she was paying for the indulgence. Despite the elaborate canopy on the boat sent to receive them from their ship, the light of late morning was still bright enough to pierce the backs of her eyes, and every sound seemed muffled against the constant throbbing in her temples.

Larra leaned over, resting her chin on Ashara's shoulder

"Puck up, Ash. It won't do to look weak before the rebels." Ashara could hear the teasing smile in her voice, and glared at her from the side of her eye. Larra had been the one to fill her goblet again and again the night before, and now here the woman was, bright-eyed and chipper as a rabbit, expecting Ashara to be the same.

"Careful with your words. Some would find such a term offensive." She groaned again, shying away from her friend. "And your perfume is making me ill."

Larra only laughed, boisterous and unreserved, turning heads their way.

"I speak only the truth. They are rebels—'tis only that they won. We have yet to swear them loyalty. And Ash, you wound me! This perfume was a gift from you."

"There was a reason I gave it to you," Ashara mumbled. Larra laughed again.

At Jon Arryn's invitation, Doran had chosen five of his trusted bannermen—Larra among them—to accompany Oberyn and act as his envoys. Ashara was the sixth, and on the surface was to represent her brother. But when they had left Sunspear with three fully armed war galleys, Ashara knew that if all went to plan, she would not see Dorne again for years.

As their party was escorted into the Red Keep, Ashara could not help but wrinkle her nose in remembered distaste for the palace, no matter that the Mad King no longer roamed the halls like an injured beast. To one side, Larra seemed to stiffen for the same reason, while on the other, Ser Paten Dalt peered curiously at their faces.

"You both look as if you are heading to your execution," he said in that mild voice of his. Ashara felt her eyebrow rise.

"Has Dy told you nothing of our time here with Princess Elia?" Larra asked, for Dyanna Dalt was the meekest one of their little circle of friends, and the very air in the Red Keep had seemed to make her shrink like a startled bird.

"Not once," said Ser Paten, frowning. "I imagined it was no real burden on her." Did he even know his sister? Existence itself was always in danger of becoming too much a burden for Dy to bear.

"When you return home you must ask her about it," Larra said darkly. "This place still haunts my dreams at times."

"But do wait until she is better," said Ashara, for Ser Paten had informed them that their friend had taken ill of late. "She won't thank you for bringing up the Mad King while she is still frail." Or ever, but she decided not to contradict Larra's words.

Soon they came upon the throne room, and after a tense series of greetings during which Oberyn addressed the king as only "King Robert" and not "Your Grace," they were guided to the council chambers for negotiations.

As they entered the lavish council room, Ashara's eyes were drawn at once to the figure who rose to greet them. Ned looked his serious, staid self, though when their gazes met for a brief instant, his grey eyes softened, and Ashara hoped he saw in her own eyes her pleasure at the sight of him.

He gave her an almost imperceptible nod as they were motioned into chairs, as if to tell her things had played to their plans, and Ashara lowered her face to hide her smile. She had been worried he could not bring himself to lie, but however he had done it, she had not been wrong to place her faith in him.

Larra slipped into the seat beside her, and suddenly Ashara felt an icy grip on her knee. She turned her head then to see Larra's ashen face, and followed her gaze to the balding man who sat on the left of the king.

"Is that…" she whispered, and Larra gave a single nod.

"Tywin Lannister, in the flesh," she said under her breath, her feline's eyes narrowing. "They expect us to believe he did not order his men to kill Elia? Look at him. He would have murdered them with his own hands if he thought it would benefit him."

The man did indeed look as hard as granite, his countenance not helped by the stories they told of Castamere and Duskendale. Fleetingly, Ashara wondered if warm blood ran through his veins at all, or if he would only bleed cold Lannister gold when cut.

Did he truly order his men to rape and murder Elia? Ashara's hand tightened on one of the little throwing blades Oberyn had insisted she carry on her today. 'In case Robert Baratheon acted in bad faith,' he had said, though the notion had seemed absurd.

An unreasonable, coward's voice in Ashara's head did not wish to know if Tywin Lannister had given the orders. She would be lost if she knew for truth that he had. But Oberyn would find out. And once the viper set his eyes on his prey, there was no veering him off his path.

"Prince Oberyn, I must say, I did not expect we would be in discussion with your entire retinue," said the old lion, eyeing their party of seven. "Surely your vassals will trust in their liege lord to negotiate a fair peace."

A shiver down her spine prompted Ashara to reach for Larra's hand on her knee. His very voice was cold as a steel blade.

Oberyn, to his credit, looked entirely unfazed.

"They are not my vassals, Lord Tywin, but my brother's. We have all come to represent Doran, and the interests of our houses. We Martells celebrate our differences in Dorne, you see, and my lords and ladies here each have their own list of terms.

Oberyn did not say, naturally, that Doran had chosen these lords and ladies because the terms they would present were the very ones he wished to advance.

And so they set about their terms, and for this Ashara stayed mostly silent, for her purpose here was not to be a negotiator. Instead, she took her time observing the king, his Hand, and the old lion—Robert Baratheon's glazed eyes and constantly emptying goblet; Jon Arryn's shrewd gaze hidden by his amiable face; Tywin Lannister's near lifeless features and pale green eyes—though she found herself distracted constantly by Ned's solemn face in the periphery of her gaze.

It would not do to stare at him—there were more than a few pairs of sharp eyes around the table—but she could not help her wandering eye.

Dagos Manwoody laid out their desire to keep their lands intact and under the control of Kingsgrave. They and the Fowlers had struggled for as long as memory against the Carons of Nightsong, and surely the Stormland Carons would use this war as an excuse to gain Manwoody lands.

Lord Morson Toland wanted leave to find the bodies of his sons in the Riverlands, and Ser Paten Dalt of Lemonwood insisted that his bastard brother Ser Millen, captured after the Trident, be returned safely to Dorne along with all other prisoners. The king had looked intensely displeased at this request, demanding if Dalt understood the point of taking prisoners was to garner ransom, but Jon Arryn had managed to soothe the king back to reason.

"There must be changes in taxes," Arryn began, his tone circumspect. "If for nothing else, we find winter upon us once more, and Dorne is least affected by the cold winds and snows. Surely as one of these seven kingdoms, you would contribute a greater number than before, to help us all through this winter."

"Your Grace, we have deserts as far as the eye can see in Dorne," said Larra, and Ashara saw Lady Delonne Allyrion nod.

"Desert, or barren, rocky mountains. We are no Reachlands, my lord Hand. Your winter winds bring us drought, and our smallfolk are barely able to keep their bellies full. Would you have us take food from their mouths to feed others?"

Ashara wondered briefly when Larra had become so adept at twisting the truth, for the Blackmont lands were as fertile as the Yronwoods', and just as inaccessible.

And so the haggling over taxes began, and Ashara watched Tywin Lannister's icy disapproval grow ever colder until she realised he objected not to Larra's words, but to the fact of a young woman speaking as if she belonged across the table from the Hand of the King.

 _Belong she does,_ thought Ashara, and fought to keep the smirk off her face.

When at last Oberyn broached the issue of justice for Elia, Ashara could see that the new king was growing impatient. The king did not give Tywin Lannister a chance to play coy.

"You'll get your justice," the king bellowed, draining his goblet. "Lord Tywin's found the two men who supposedly killed them, and they'll be put on trial tomorrow and the next day. Good enough?"

Beside her, Larra made an indignant sound at the back of her throat, and she felt angry blood rise to her own face.

Oberyn looked mutinous, but he clenched his fist so tightly that Ashara could see his veins in his arms and nodded. She had made Oberyn understand they were not going to receive an apology from Robert Baratheon—what mattered, in the end, was the result itself. And though it made Ashara uneasy, a trial played straight into Oberyn's hand.

Robert took their silence as assent. With a clang, he set down his goblet.

"Well! Good! You'll jabber amongst yourselves and my Hand will tell me which of your terms are unreasonable. But uh, one last thing. Lord Stark here is in need of a wife. You—" he motioned at Ashara—"Lady Ashara Dayne, you aren't promised. If you're here for your brother, you're noble enough to marry Lord Stark. We'll have a wedding feast before week's end, and you Dornish can finally bend the bloody knee."

**O~O~O~O~O**

Ashara was surprised their entourage managed to maintain a semblance of composure the entire trip back to their ship. Hissing intakes of breath had risen all around her as King Robert had said those last words, and as soon as all were in the meeting cabin on the ship, Dagos Manwoody planted his fist into the table.

"Is Robert Baratheon out of his mind? Not even a word of regret for our princess! Even the Targaryens did not murder children!"

"Perhaps you ought to return to your histories, Lord Manwoody," said Lord Toland, his bald head glistening in the light. "Best not to remember the Targaryens too fondly just yet."

Lord Manwoody only glowered through his heavy beard.

"And the marriage?" he continued. "Baratheon has no right to command such a marriage, no right! Does he seek purposefully to insult? We all know Stark slew Arthur Dayne!"

"On the contrary," said Lord Toland, narrowing his eyes and sinking into a chair. "As a king, he has every right. Yet I am surprised Jon Arryn would allow him to be so crass. Lady Ashara has shown Eddard Stark courtesy at Starfall, but this marriage request is surely too much."

"Well, Oberyn?" demanded Lord Manwoody. "You will let all the insults stand? I say we leave now. I still have five hundred men, and Baratheon can stick his peace up his arse."

Oberyn's dark brow rose in a sharp arc like a gull's wing.

"Don't think I am not angry about his attitude toward Elia," he said darkly, his eyes hard. "But. We will have this trial, and that is what matters to me.

"As for the marriage request...Whatever insult you perceive, Lord Manwoody, it would be no insult to you or me. My lords, you seem to have forgotten Lady Ashara is standing right here. Let us ask what she makes of this insult."

All eyes turned to her then, and she could feel Larra's most piercing of all, fixed to her like a cat scenting prey on the wind. She could hear the pieces falling into place in Larra's mind, but her friend would not give away her game.

"My lords, my ladies," she began, standing up to curtsey to them all. "I thank you for your defence of me and the honour of my house." She took a breath then, digging her nails hard into the palm of her hand to keep her voice clear and staid.

"King Robert's words might shock, but they are no insult. The truth is, Lord Stark slew my brother in fair combat, then brought Dawn back to Starfall when a less honourable man would have kept it for himself. Tis the nature of war. Arthur, Princess Elia. Your sons, Lord Toland, and your cousin, Lord Manwoody." She looked around the room again, then offered a small, sad smile.

"You will forgive me when I say I wish only to see it end. If it means my marriage to the North, I make no objections, and neither will my lord brother."

"Are you mad, girl? You'd stomach bedding with the man who put a blade in Arthur Dayne, my nephew? You could live with your conscience?"

Ashara froze. It was Lady Delonne Allyrion of Godsgrace who spoke, and though Ashara had not met the woman until mere days ago, she could easily pick out her voice. Very slowly, she turned her head to face the woman whose hawkish features, Ashara was certain, looked nothing like her mother's had.

"I thank you for your concern, my lady," she said, frost lacing her words, "though it surprises me you remember you once had a sister, and that she bore children."

The woman's face was turning the shade of boiled crab, but Ashara did not care. She could remember little of her mother, but she still recalled how she had wept when Ashara had asked of her family.

"Insolence, girl! Were these the manners your mother—"

"My mother is dead. And my brother was a Dayne. As you have made it clear you wish nothing to do with my family, I should think my conscience needn't trouble you. My lady."

Even as she spoke she knew it was wrong to do so. It did no good to antagonise her estranged aunt, and even less to make such a scene before the other houses, but red was creeping up the edges of her vision.

How dare this woman speak up now, when she had spoken no word of condolence to Ashara when they had set out from Sunspear, and had never made any acknowledgement of her mother's passing all those years ago?

She felt Larra's hand on her arm, and bit hard on the inside of her cheek.

Around them the silence hung heavy like smoke, and the belligerent lords seemed subdued by the venomous exchange. Finally, it was Paten Dalt who broke in with his soft, calming voice.

"Well, if Prince Oberyn and Lady Ashara have no objection," he said placatingly, "I see no reason to object myself. Perhaps it would benefit us all to have Dornish blood up north. As Lady Ash says, I think we are all here because we wish to see war's end."

And so the oppressive tension of the room seemed to evaporate like mist at sunrise, though through the rest of the deliberations, Ashara could feel her aunt's soot-black gaze drilling into her skull.

**O~O~O~O~O**

_Two Days Later_

The canopied stands in the outer ward were already crowded when Ned slipped into his seat behind Jon Arryn. Despite the recent carnage in the city, smallfolk had come to crowd the walkways, steps and balconies, and it appeared every minor lord or knight had managed a place among the seats.

On one side of the makeshift arena, the squat Armory Lorch was being helped into his armour by a frightened-looking squire. The man's face was set in a sneer that had not left it since the trial the day before, when six Lannister men at arms had sat before their council of judges and recounted how Lorch had dragged Princess Rhaenys from under her bed and stabbed her eight and twenty times.

When Lorch himself had been brought into the witness stand, he had growled that he would have a trial by combat, then refused to answer any more questions. Ned wondered now how the man could be so confident in his fighting abilities. His opponent was clearly ten years his junior and looked lean and agile besides, but if the camp rumours were to be believed, Lorch was not terribly sharp, and had the tendency for blind pride and an overinflated ego.

Gregor Clegane's trial had proceeded much the same way, though the man certainly had more reason to demand combat. If trial by combat was justice from the gods, Clegane must have a kind, noble side no one had ever encountered. But they were in the south now, and from the faces of the Dorne party, the trials had played to their satisfaction thus far.

Absently, Ned scanned the crowds for Ashara's face, trying in vain to forget the accusations charged against Clegane still ringing in his head. There were many things Ned would like to forget about this day.

From the other side of Robert's canopy, Hoster Tully glared over at him. Ned did his best to keep his head pointed straight ahead, determined to ignore his goodfather's venomous gaze. The man had all but cornered Ned outside his chambers that morning, his face near purple with rage.

"You would marry again before my daughter is cold in the river? Does a wife mean so little to you Stark men then?"

Ned had tried to remain stoic at the nonsensical insult. The man was grieving his daughter, and it was human nature to hide behind rage like a wounded animal. But his words had escalated, made worse when Ned had insisted Robb be sent to Winterfell as soon as possible, until finally Ned too had lost his temper.

"I had great respect for Lady Catelyn, and I was glad to have her for my wife, but the gods were cruel to us both. Robb needs a mother, and Winterfell a lady. I do not answer to you regarding my son or my marriage."

Then he had turned on his heel and stalked down the corridor, Tully's bloodshot eyes burning into his back. Guilt mixed with his anger, swirling like a swamp in his stomach, and Ned pinched the bridge of his nose, hoping the nausea would subside.

On the opposite side of the arena, the knight who had been introduced as Ser Paten Dalt of Lemonwood was donning his own leather armour. The man looked about Ned's age with an overly youthful face, and his close-shorn hair gleamed black in the sunlight. His head was bent in close conversation with Prince Oberyn, who stood examining the knight's spear, his features sharp as a vulture's.

Ned had expected Prince Oberyn to take on both Lorch and Clegane—Princess Rhaenys had Martell blood after all—but at the trial it was Ser Paten who had stood unchallenged and announced in almost too mild a voice that he would take on Ser Armory Lorch.

His pronouncement had drawn sneers from some of the Lannister men at arms, but Ned did not think the Dornish party would allow this man to dole out justice for the little princess if they had no faith in his abilities.

The two men parted with mutual nods, the prince giving Ser Paten a hardy clap on the shoulder, and soon the High Septon was shuffling forward to offer his prayers.

Just before the fight began, Ned finally spotted Ashara's fair face amid the Dornish party, up high and tucked into a corner. Lady Larra Blackmont, another of Princess Elia's former ladies, sat beside her, their dark heads blending together as they spoke. Seeming to sense eyes on her, Ashara turned towards Ned, and for a moment she locked her eyes into his, the corner of her mouth lifting.

He smiled back, faint as he could, his heart easing and his body light. Beside Ashara, Lady Blackmont frowned and looked over at him too. Her eyebrows shot up for a moment, looking back and forth between Ashara, who had sunk her teeth into her crimson lip, and Ned, who was certain his face had flushed an ugly red.

Then the woman gave Ned a devious smile that could almost be described as lecherous, and leaned over to whisper in Ashara's ear. Ashara looked away and stubbornly refused to meet Ned's eye again. For just a flash, it was as if they had returned to the jousting stands at Harrenhal, but Ned soon remembered that the contest today was no game.

When the fight began, the two knights seemed evenly matched. For every jab of the spear that came too close to Lorch's weak points, Ser Paten too narrowly dodged swings of Lorch's arming sword. As minutes passed, however, it became clear that Lorch's movements had slowed, while Ser Paten was still fast as ever on his feet.

When Ser Paten drew first blood on Lorch's leg, the crowd around him had gasped in near unison, but Ned could see that it was no deep cut. Still, Lorch let out a wild sort of scream, and Ned could only assume the man was not used to injury.

And so the fight wore on, Lorch managing two cuts through Ser Paten's leather armour, but Ser Paten delivering jab after jab with his spear so that blood soon dripped about Lorch's feet. His pained grunts filled the air now, and Ned realised suddenly that Ser Paten seemed to aim specifically for those parts that would not prove fatal when cut.

Of their own accord, his eyes found Ashara again. She had turned pale as a sheet, her face a glaring contrast against the olive skin of Lady Blackmont, and when she met his eyes again she mouthed something before her lips pressed into a tight line.

 _Twenty-eight._ It took Ned several breaths to make out the words, but when he did he was suddenly cold despite the sun and the crush of bodies. Lorch had stabbed Princess Rhaenys twenty eight times. It would seem Ser Paten intended to return the favour.

Lorch had fallen to one knee now, making low-pitched groans. Ser Paten stood over him. Quick as a viper, he drove his spear into him twice more, piercing his shoulder, then his hand.

"That is twenty-eight kisses of my spear, Ser Armory, for the twenty-eight times you put your dirty blade into Princess Elia's daughter."

The knight's voice was still cool and subdued, though it somehow lifted above the babble of the crowds. Ned heard more intakes of breath around him, and in front of him Robert turned to say something to Jon, his face flushed and his eyes wide.

Lorch had collapsed fully to the ground now, and his whole body shook as blood started to pool around his knees. His wails grew sharper still, and Ned felt his brows furrow. Perhaps his injuries were deeper than they appeared, for the man truly looked in agony.

Ser Paten should finish off his opponent. The honour-bound part of Ned was half horrified that the man was suffering thus, no matter his crimes, though the part that remembered the little princess on the marble floor was making no objections to this display.

Ser Paten was not finished speaking.

"Ser Armory, surely a knight like you would not have the audacity to murder a royal princess. Tell me, ser, who gave your orders?"

Murmurs rippled through the crowds at his words, and Ned felt his unease stir. Ser Paten made another circle around Lorch, his steps leisurely. When Lorch did not answer with words, Ser Paten leaned down, kicked his sword away, and appeared to whisper in his ear.

A cry as if from a butchered pig pierced the air, and Lorch launched himself at his opponent, who jumped away with ease. He reached for his sword, seeming to regain strength, but managed only two teetering steps before pitching forward to the ground once more. Again he screamed. Ned did not understand how this man ever managed to be knighted. Surely dying from loss of blood was not so acutely agonising. He had certainly seen enough such deaths these past years to know men died in silence and cold. 

The crowd was thunderous, the smallfolk loudest of all, but Ser Paten’s voice cut through the din.

"What will it be, ser? Will you tell us who gave your orders?"

Lorch screamed, his words incoherent, and Ser Paten appeared almost to leer.

"What was that, Ser Armory? I doubt anyone could understand you."

"Lord Tywin, damn you! Lord Tywin gave the fucking orders! End it, you fucking bastard, end it now!"

And Ser Paten complied with a final plunge of his spear.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have no idea how to write fight scenes, so this was just a lot of jabbing and slicing at each other.
> 
> Thanks so much to Cmedina1 and Captain Fuckew McHugerage for being my new betas :)))) They have so many great ideas and I'm so excited for future storylines


	13. This Damn City

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve played rather fast and loose with people’s ages, in case that wasn’t clear. Oberyn is a year older than Ash, and Elia was two.

She found Oberyn near the stern of their ship, arms braced against the taffrail. The setting sun shone blood-red behind the city, and as she neared she could feel the restless danger rolling off him.

"What did you use?" she asked. He did not turn around, instead waiting for her to join him in looking out over the bay.

"From Valyrian it translates as 'key of the tongue.' Once it is in the blood, one's pain only escalates, and there is no stopping it, save death. They say any man can be made to talk given enough time with the brew."

Ashara felt her stomach turn. Oberyn turned to her, his eyes burning.

"You do not approve."

"'Tis not for me to approve or not."

A silence.

"It should have horrified me," she said. "Instead I am only horrified at myself. Even as all the blood made me ill I did not wish to turn away. And I wanted to hear him scream."

"Yes," sighed Oberyn, "that was a sweet sound, was it not? Do you think Elia heard it from beyond the grave?"

"I hope not. _She_ would disapprove, even for the murderer of her child. We both know that much."

Oberyn massaged his temple.

"My kind sister. Not a cruel bone in her body and a heart as soft and sweet as jam. If there really are gods up there, how could they let this happen to her?"

"You think the Father is truly just and the Mother merciful? Whoever is up there, it seems they enjoy watching our pathetic writhing."

He laughed—a humourless, brittle sound.

"How fares our gallant Lord Manwoody?"

"My Rhoynish healer has wrapped his hand and applied salve. 'Tis naught but bruised knuckles."

"Good, though I was most tempted not to pull him off."

Following the death of Armory Lorch, as their party was taking its stiff leave of King Robert, Lord Manwoody had taken advantage of his proximity to plant his fist into Tywin Lannister's jaw. The old lion had tried to dodge at the last moment, and the blow was only glancing, but he would surely wear a mark for many days to come.

"What will you do now?" asked Ashara.

Oberyn shook his head.

"Nothing has changed. Not as yet."

In Sunspear, they had all suspected Lord Tywin's involvement, and the suspicion was likely the same among the other lords of the realm. As Paten had said in the arena, it was near unthinkable for a mere knight to commit such murders of his own accord.

Yet still they had no proof save the words of one man alone. A murderer of children. Who could say he did not accuse Lord Tywin out of spite? Tywin himself would take that stance until the day he died, no doubt. The thought made her want to cast her dinner into the sea.

"Will you use the same method to extract Clegane's confession tomorrow?"

"Yes," said Oberyn, facing out to the bay, "though I will have to thicken the poison. Clegane must have the blood of giants." His nails ground into the wood of the taffrail, leaving jagged dents, and Ashara fought in vain to expel from her mind imaginings of Elia's last moments.

"You do not think Lannister will have caught on to your scheme? Lorch's reaction at the end was unnatural, to say the least."

"If he was sure of foul play he would have confronted me, surely. No one would accuse Paten Dalt of poison, with his pristine reputation, and once I have my confession and revenge tomorrow, it won't matter what people say of me. And besides." He turned to her. "Did your future husband suspect poison today?"

She had managed a few whispered words with Ned after the trial.

"No, not a thing, but Ned rarely has such underhanded possibilities at the fore of his mind." She pressed her lips together.

"I shall have to tell him when it is over tomorrow. I would have liked to tell him today." She hoped he would not be overly repulsed by her part in this bloody business.

Oberyn gave her an almost amused look.

"As I say, it won't matter what people think after tomorrow. I would not mind you telling your lover tonight if it will ease your conscience."

Ashara felt the tips of her ears heat.

"How could you possibly know I was planning to meet him?"

"Lucky guess? You kept gawking at him."

She cleared her throat.

"Tell him what you like, Ash. I doubt he will try to stop me, especially if you wish him not to. I will tell you though, that you are wrong if you think it will be over tomorrow."

Icy claws crept up Ashara's back. Her plotting with Ned had never been to bring down Tywin Lannister. She was just one person without an army behind her, and war itself was never good or just.

If Oberyn and Doran wished to plan anything more, she would rather not know. She thought Elia would be satisfied with these two deaths, but Oberyn and Doran were her brothers, and she had no say in the actions of her liege.

"I only hope you remember your promise to your brother for this trip," Ashara said slowly. "That you will act as he would. Justice must be had, but please, do not—"

"Do not be rash, do not be aggressive, do not be myself. Yes yes," said Oberyn, waving his hand. "I do remember, and I did swear to him."

"And yet you and Paten are still descending upon King's Landing tonight with your men?" She had heard sailors and soldiers talk of visiting the underground fighting pits in Flea Bottom.

"Ah, I knew I was not the only observant one. Lord Manwoody will come as well. We are only going to release some of our anger before one of us accidentally murders Tywin Lannister and starts another war. Our men can't stay cooped on this ship forever. I've told them to leave their weapons on board."

"Oberyn…"

"I will keep the men in check as well as my anger, and act as Doran would. Don't worry yourself."

She hoped he meant it.

Oberyn heaved a sigh as if shifting the burden on his shoulders.

"The things we do for love, Ash, and the things that cease to matter. Truth, and self. Loyalty. And honour."

Ashara glanced at him from the corner of her eye. "When have either of us cared one whit about honour?"

"Not you or me. Paten Dalt. I had not thought to use this poison until he asked me in Sunspear, and you should have seen the malicious glint in his eye this morning."

"Paten Dalt? But he is so..."

"Kind? Honourable? Mild-tempered?"

"From what I have seen, yes. What are you saying?"

"It seems Elia had more admirers than we knew."

Ashara frowned at him.

"You don't mean that he was..."

"In love with her? That is precisely what I mean. And yes, when it dawned on me I did feel the way your face looks at present."

"Gods, but we've known him for years. None of us suspected a thing."

Oberyn raised a dark brow.

"You don't think Elia knew? She could sense all when it came to matters of the heart."

"Do you think they were ever together? I don't see how I could have missed the signs."

Oberyn shrugged.

"Does it matter? The man was willing to put aside all his principles to avenge her daughter. If not out of respect for my house I daresay he would gladly take on the Mountain as well. Who would have thought the Dalts have such hot blood beneath their balmy exterior?"

"Justice," Ashara corrected almost absently, feeling that his words unsettled her.

"What?"

She turned to him.

"You say he avenged Elia's daughter. But we are not here for revenge, Oberyn. We are here for justice. That's what I wanted when I drew this plan, and that is what Elia would have asked for."

"Justice. Vengeance. They are two sides of one coin. Justice is only vengeance dressed in the white cloak of the righteous. And if we cannot have this lofty thing they call justice, vengeance tastes just as sweet."

**O~O~O~O~O**

The moon shone as bright as day through the diamond windows in the Red Keep, casting pools of white light on the marble floor as Ashara made her way to the royal sept.

It had been easy enough to convince the sentries outside the castle gates to let her into the keep. All knew by now that Lord Stark's future wife was a Dornishwoman with dark hair and purple eyes, and when she said she wished to pray, no one had questioned her motives, especially as she left her guards at the gatehouse and asked the Baratheon men to provide them something to drink.

Now she walked the empty, familiar halls alone, lantern in hand, trying to speed her footsteps. A draft wound through the empty hall and Ashara pulled her wrappings tight around her shoulders, trying not to think about just how much colder she was going to be for the rest of her life.

It would be worth it, now and later. If it meant she could wake to see Ned Stark's face every morning, she could brave the icy winds and snow.

She had arranged to meet Ned in the Godswood, but it could not hurt to light some candles in the sept along the way. Just because the years had embittered her to the gods did not mean she wished to court their wrath through neglect.

Nearing the arched doorway, she slipped inside the dim sept, then had to bite hard on her tongue to stop herself yelping in surprise. Only one of the wall sconces were lit, beside the statue of the Warrior, and on the steps beneath it sprawled Robert Baratheon, three wine pitchers and empty goblets scattered around him.

Very slowly, Ashara backed towards the doorway, but her shoe caught on a ledge she had not known was there, and the heel made a _clank_ on the stone.

"Who's there?"

Ashara cursed herself silently before emerging from the shadows.

"My apologies for disturbing you, You Grace."

"Ah, Lady Ashara Dayne!" His voice was slightly slurred and almost melodic from the wine, and so loud that it echoed and bounced about the walls. "You didn't disturb me! Not like I own the place."

Ashara wanted to remind him that he did, in fact, own the place, but held her tongue.

"I was just heading to the godswood, and thought to light a candle is all," she explained, eager to be on her way. "I shall just—"

"Nonsense! Come in, come in! Come to demand answers from the gods as well? Not sure how much luck you'll have. I've been sitting here for hours and none of them have said a damn thing."

For a moment she hesitated still, but then sighed and walked towards King Robert. As she drew near, the pungent tang of wine cut through the soft incense, and she noticed that Robert's face was blotchy, and his eyes bloodshot.

"No, Your Grace. I have stopped expecting answers long ago. I only came in hopes that they might be kinder to me in future than they have been in the past."

Briskly, she lit a taper from the wall sconce, and lit the candle on the marble altar before each statue, giving each a bow.

"Hah! Maybe they were too good to me in the past. Now they're punishing me. Wine?" He found an empty goblet on the tray behind him.

"No, thank you."

"More for me. Sit!" He gestured to the step beside him, and Ashara complied. Robert frowned, patting the stone around him, and Ashara located a pitcher that was not yet empty to fill his goblet.

"I thank you," he mumbled, downing half of it. Then he peered at her over the brim, his eyes narrowed in thought.

"Your…brother."

"Which one, Your Grace?"

"The dead one."

She felt herself flinch, though she tried not to, and Robert frowned again.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to be crass."

"It's alright. He is dead."

Robert waved his goblet in an elaborate gesture of a toast above his head.

"Ser Arthur Dayne," he said, drawing out the vowels. "Ser Arthur Dayne."

"Yes, Your Grace."

"Damn it, would you stop with the 'Your Gracing'? Bloody grating on the ears."

"I've never addressed a king as anything else."

His lip curled in disgust.

"Just…don't address me at all then."

She arched an eyebrow, but at least this king was showing no signs of threatening to tie her hair into a wick and burn her like a candle.

"Very well, then."

Robert nodded, satisfied, and finished his goblet of wine.

"Arthur Dayne. Ser Arthur Dayne," he repeated under his breath. "Ned told me he killed him. Or…no, I suppose that short bannerman of his dealt the fatal blow, and Ned had to end it."

Oh, but why did Robert Baratheon's words cut deeper than Aerys' ever had?

"That is what he told me as well."

"He was guarding Lyanna. And Ned killed him."

Robert seemed to speak to a far wall, but Ashara kept her eyes fixed on his face. He did not seem angry, more dazed.

"Arthur swore a vow," Ashara said carefully. "He swore to obey—"

Robert swatted an impatient hand, cutting her off.

"Yes, yes, I know. Doing his duty, and all that, I don't blame him. Just a bleeding shame, your brother. Best swordsman in the Seven Kingdoms. Gods, when I asked him for a spar at Harrenhal, he took me down in five moves flat."

Ashara hid her surprise, not at her brother's skill, but that Robert would so willingly admit to defeat.

She was silent for a long time while Robert seemed to relish in the memory. Finally, she said,

"He truly was the best swordsman of his time, and I do not say so merely because he was my brother."

"When we were boys, Ned and I both wanted to be Daynes, you know? Secretly, of course, but…gods, every boy in the kingdom must have wanted to wield Dawn and fight like Arthur Dayne."

Ashara opened her mouth, then closed it again, and decided that, yes, she did want some wine after all.

"Perhaps," she said after downing half a goblet and feeling it slosh into her stomach, "but you do not know what he had to give up for such an honour." _And what it took from all of us._

Robert seemed confused at her words, then let them go with a shake of his head. He was squinting at her again, and she stared right back, eyebrows slightly raised.

Finally, he sighed and looked to the ceiling.

"Ned really is a lucky bastard, isn't he?"

Ashara frowned and gave him an incredulous look.

"He has lost his father, his brother and his sister in less than two years. He has had to lead a kingdom with no preparation to do so, and has lost his new wife besides. I should think 'lucky' is the last word one would use for Ned Stark."

Robert looked shocked for a moment, then threw his head back and laughed, but Ashara could hear the hollow brittleness of it echoing from the domed ceiling.

"Gods have mercy, Ned never stood a chance! He'll lose every quarrel you have once you wed."

Now her eyebrows were climbing to her hair.

"And this does not concern you? Aren't your wives supposed to be meek and obedient up north?"

"Hah! I don't know what wives are supposed to be like, but why'd I want a wife like that?" Something seemed to dim in his eyes then.

"Lyanna wasn't like that," he said, suddenly quiet. "She wasn't like that at all, and all I wanted was to have her as mine." She thought of Lyanna seven moons gone with child, racing down the stairs so she would not miss Ashara before she left. Ashara swallowed, her throat tight.

"I am very sorry. For you, and for N—Lord Stark," she said, not knowing what else to say.

"I came here because I wanted some fucking answers! Damnit to seven hells, why did they take her from me? Why?! Jon has his chance at an heir and Ned gets to marry the woman he loves, but what about me? All I get is that fucking chair, and it isn't even comfortable to sit in!"

No matter his delusions and his callous words, she did not like to see this man suffer so. He was like a lost, abandoned little boy, and his eyes were glassy with pain.

"It will not hurt so, after a while," she said quietly. "I think I was where you are but days ago."

He turned and squinted at her.

"For your brother?"

"Among others." For the child she held only once. For the sister she had chosen. For the half of her soul she thought was lost forever.

"You seem alright now."

"As I say, it will not hurt so after a while." She tilted her head to study him, wondering if she spoke too much, but the man was thoroughly drunk, and would like as not forget this whole encounter.

"We have a tower at Starfall. It is called the Palestone Sword, and rises five hundred feet above where the Torentine meets the sea."

An absent grunt.

"For a great many days I wanted to jump out the tower room."

A silence, then Robert snapped his head to her, eyes bulging.

"Good gods, woman! Are you mad?"

"You are right, of course. I was half mad."

Robert was shaking his head, making a tutting sound.

"Well, good thing for Ned you didn't. Damn, but your life needs not end when someone else's does."

"You are right," she said again. "I no longer wished to jump out of towers."

"What changed your mind?" He asked curiously.

Ashara paused for only a moment.

"A lemon garden."

"Huh?"

"A lemon garden, and the new life I saw there. I am barely one and twenty. I did not wish to be dust and bones."

"Huh." He seemed to be considering her words, or perhaps he had not heard them at all.

"Lemons don't grow in this shithole of a city," he finally said.

Ashara let the echoes of his voice die before filling his goblet once more.

"Perhaps you should keep drinking, then," she said. "If you're drunk all the time, the throne won't be nearly as uncomfortable."

He laughed again, the sound thick and clogged.

"Ah, Lyanna would have liked you, I think."

The knot in her throat tightened until she ached. _You'll stay to see me through this, won't you? And then you can take me riding through the mountains._ Ashara filled her own goblet.

"I have met her. I liked her very much."

"Oh, at Harrenhal, yes." She nodded.

He glanced sideways at her.

"And Ned? Did you like him, too?"

She gave him a small smile.

"Yes, I daresay I did. Like him."

Robert nodded, satisfied and looking pleased.

"Good. That's good." He heaved a great sigh and wiped his face with his hand. "At least one of us won't be miserable. Be good to him, would you? I know he's got a face like a tombstone, but he's not frozen all the way through. He's more a brother to me than my own brothers have been."

Robert's words were slurring together until his voice slipped forth in one long stream, but when he looked at her, his eyes seemed startlingly clear.

Ashara studied him for a long moment, her heart tender in her chest.

"I will be the best wife I can be. You need not worry for your friend. I just hope you will not always be so miserable, Robert."

He raised his glass to her wordlessly, and they both downed their wine.

**O~O~O~O~O**

"You truly are not angry about the poison? I do not wish you to think I deceived you into facilitating something you find reprehensible. It was never my intention."

Ashara was tucked into the crook of Ned's arm in a little clearing in the godswood, his heavy cloak and furs wrapped around them, though he was furnace all on his own. Perhaps the North would not be so cold after all.

"I know," he said into her hair. "I am not angry."

She had told him of the poison Oberyn had applied to Paten Dalt's spear, and how she had realised the truth of it when Lorch began howling from his seemingly shallow wounds.

"I do not like it," he continued, "but it extracted Tywin Lannister's name, and that counts for something."

Ashara nodded.

"Yes, it would seem that was the plan. To implicate Tywin Lannister. They will do the same tomorrow." She pushed herself up onto an elbow to look at him.

"Please don't try to stop Oberyn. He is just as stubborn as you are, and he will not back down. There is blood in his eyes. I could see it."

Ned took a long breath and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"I must confess, Ash, that I did not find the whole affair this morning entirely objectionable. It shames me to say so, but the image of the little princess was constantly in my mind. Armory Lorch…was not wronged today."

Her heart seemed to skip, but she should not have been shocked. He was no rigid man of stone. There was a beating heart and hot blood beneath his stony mask.

"It should not shame you unless the terrifying satisfaction I felt should shame me also."

He looked at her then, his hand reaching to touch along her cheekbone.

"No. I won't try to stop Prince Oberyn."

"Good. Thank you."

He shook away her thanks.

"What does Prince Oberyn plan to do about Tywin Lannister?"

"He has not told me. I have not asked. If I am honest, I am too scared to know."

**O~O~O~O~O**

Much later, Ashara dozed in his arms as Ned studied the lights and shadows of her face in the moonlight. Her straight nose; her gull-wing brows; the little dimple on her chin. Tiny freckles had appeared along her cheek since he had last looked so close at her skin, and her face seemed fuller now, and less strained.

 _Good_ , he thought, his hand sliding absently down her shoulder and arm. Too much grief could waste away a body, and he hoped she was over the worst of it.

Grief. He could no longer describe the feeling, for it had been his constant companion, and grown into his bones like the roots of a weirwood.

And what good did it do him to peek beneath the bandages with which he had hastily covered his wounds? His father roasting like a pig on a spit in his armour. Brandon's face turned purple, then black as he choked. Lady Catelyn slipping into the fire of fever. Lyanna pleading with him as her blood drained sticky over her legs. The scenes would haunt him every night if he allowed them.

And his daughter. Oh, gods, what had he done? He had given Ash a child, a bastard in truth, and he had not even known the babe existed until she was no more. Was he no better than Robert in that? So careless with the life he created? Or should he hope for such carelessness, for that carved stone with the cheerful mushroom ring had torn a chunk out of his flesh.

That was his first child, he realised with horror. The first child he made, and with the woman who was his very heart. He had asked her to describe what their daughter looked like, but her face had turned white as bone, and he had withdrawn.

"Would you have told me?" he'd asked her some time after. "If...if anything had been different, would you have told me of her?"

"No." She met his gaze almost defiantly, and her voice was sure. "If you were still married, or if I had not intended to forgive you, I would not have told you. I would not have forced you to bear this pain now, but if I am to share my life with you, I cannot lie to you."

He had felt anger flare, flames licking inside his skull.

"Ashara! I had a right to know!"

"I know. Even I do not have it in me to be always fair, Ned. I would not have told you and I am not sorry for it."

She was expecting him to lash out at her, to yell or storm or simply to leave. He could do none of it, for the anger in him was all for himself. He had done this to her—made her weather such a nightmare alone—and forced her to toughen her skin so she would not shred into pieces.

He had only cursed, cracked his cup in his fist, and buried his head in his hands.

Now his hand wandered down her side and over her belly, finding on the skin there four or five soft lines that he could trace with his finger. The babe must have grown enough that her belly had swelled, then—and he could not help imaging Jon's little hands and feet, but even smaller, even whiter and softer, and Ned struggled to breath.

Would they have more children together? Would they live? Could she even bring herself to carry another child of his? She had said...but she had been clawing herself out of her despair then, and perhaps she would decide she could not bear it after all.

And Ned did not know what he wanted. In some of his guilty, wondrous dreams during the war, he had seen Ash standing in the inner bailey at Winterfell, their purple-eyed daughters chasing each other around her feet while their sons sparred with wooden swords.

Yet, if he had to learn of his child growing in her, only to see her miscarry yet again, he would rip in two like parchment, and be thrown on the flames.

Ned must have drifted off to sleep then, for when he next came to, Ashara stood dressing in the clearing, her naked back glowing like marble. Ned could not tear his eyes away, his thoughts of death and grief flown far away.

"Must you go? I doubt Prince Oberyn would notice you were gone all night if he really is in some den in Flea Bottom."

She smiled over her shoulder at him, making his blood heat.

"My guards will start to worry the king has kidnapped me."

Ned sighed and stood to pull on his trousers. They would have the rest of their lives soon, he reminded himself, though this coming night without her stretched before him, dark and long.

Ashara was tugging on her sleeves now, and for a moment she paused, her shoulders stiffening as if surprised. It was gone before he could ask what was wrong, and she turned and walked to him.

"I'll make it up to you when we can stay in bed all night and all day," she half whispered, and pressed her body into his, her nose inches from his. He stifled the groan in his throat.

"Careful, now. Keep this up and I cannot be responsible for what happens next."

"Oh? Now I am curious, my lord. What would happen next?"

"Hmm." He leaned in to claim her velvet mouth, but a sudden rustle of the trees sounded to his left. Both froze. Neither moved to let go. The trees rustled again. The weight was not that of an animal.

Ashara softened in his arms first, her hand reaching for the back of his neck while she tilted her head as if to kiss his right cheek.

"Can you see them in the trees?" she whispered into his ear.

"No," he breathed back, pausing to listen. "No, but I can hear their breathing now. There are at least three."

An icy claw seized his heart and dragged it up into his throat. Three men of unknown origin. Surely armed. Ice was two paces away under the tree behind him, alongside his shirt, and there would be no real place to hide Ashara. Summoning all his will to push away the panic and fear, he forced his mind to think. _You've survived a war, Ned Stark. You can find a way out of this._

He could push her into the shrub on his left, and so long as the only men were in the tree on his right, his back could shield her from attack while he reached for Ice. But if they were after her life as well, surely one would dodge around him...

Ashara's hand was still on his neck, and it seemed the men had not yet chosen to strike. Slowly, she turned them so he was facing the tree where Ice lay, caressing and kissing his skin the entire time. He tried to keep the frown of confusion from his face, understanding that they must pretend they heard nothing.

"What—"

"When I say so, go to your sword at once," she whispered. "Trust me. You needn't fear for me." His mind spun, and he barely heard her.

"Ash—"

But she was already pulling out of his arms, laughter like bells escaping her lips.

"Go put your shirt on," she said, her voice crisp in the night, "or we shall never leave here tonight."

She stepped left, somewhere beyond his reach, her eyes darting to the men in the tree. As he lunged impulsively after her, he heard the sound of a blade cutting through the air and the trees groaning and creaking with sudden movement. Thuds on the ground. Voices.

Driven by instinct alone, he stumbled to his sword, unsheathing Ice, then turned about wildly as he took in the men who had dropped to the ground. There were three figures, clad in black with cloth tied over their faces.

They, too, seemed to be searching the woods, their arming swords primed and facing him.

"What is the meaning of this? Who are you men?" Still his eyes searched the darkness. Where had Ashara gone?

One of them sneered, his teeth glistening in the moonlight.

"Lord Stark." He gave a mock bow, then charged without another word.

Ned blocked his blow and aimed for his unprotected chest, though he could not bring himself to focus on his opponent. The two others were moving slowly around the little clearing, and as he swung his own sword at the man's neck, he heard one of them ask "where the bloody woman could have slipped off to."

His blood was suddenly ice, but his arms were at once light as air. With a cry, he brought Ice up into the flank of his opponent quicker than he'd ever swung his greatsword, and the catspaw let out a raw cry. Ned barely felt the resistance of his muscle and bones as he shoved the man from his blade with his foot, turning around and stalking after the other men. They had both turned at the sound of their companion dying, and shared a nod before rushing at Ned as one.

Terribly, in his mind flashed the unrelenting Dornish sun, under which he and Willam Dustin charged together at Ser Arthur Dayne. But Ned was no brilliant swordsman. With each swing, he did his best to push his opponents back, as their swords were shorter than Ice. The men did not seem to have received formal training, but their erratic slashing and thrusting were just as deadly as a knight's disciplined swings.

Soon all Ned's attention was taken by dodging their blades, though in the back of his mind was the constant prayer that Ashara had hidden herself somewhere, and that there were no more men about. He heard no sounds of struggle, and surely that was a hopeful sign.

Too many times, his opponents' blades came dangerously close to his limbs, but Ned felt no pain. Blood thundered in his ears, and he managed cuts into both men, though none that were deep enough to fell either.

Finally, he spotted an opening as one man stepped to the side, and Ned managed to drive the point of Ice deep into his chest. At once, his blade caught on the ribs, and as he tried to stand his ground and pull his sword back, the other man charged with his own sword aimed at Ned's neck.

His blade still stuck, Ned braced himself for a last-moment dodge, knowing this attack would likely draw blood, but before the man came close, he seemed to stop as if struck by lightning, then crumpled like a puppet.

Ned's mind stopped for a moment. Who...but he felt himself falling down with the body of the man he had killed, his hands still stiff around Ice, and he summoned a last burst of energy to yank his blade out of the body.

"Ashara?" When he finally found his tongue, he called out her name, even as he's legs led him to the felled man. The catspaw had a very thin blade handle sticking from the base of his skull.

"Ned."

His head snapped up at once, for Ashara's voice was raw and hoarse. She was standing some feet away, her face so white it near glowed in the moonlight. Her eyes were wild and shiny, and her chest heaved with irregular breaths.

She took one trembling step towards him, then two, and Ned leapt over to catch her before she could fall to the moss-covered ground.

"Shh, it's alright. You're alright, you're safe."

She was shaking violently, and Ned clutched her tight to him, hand in her hair, even as his body remained alert, scanning the trees behind her for whence the blade had come.

"You needn't keep looking," she whispered when she had calmed.

"What?"

"You needn't be so tense. I threw the knife."

It took a heartbeat for her words to make sense.

He gently gripped her by the shoulders so he could look at her.

"What did you say?"

"The knife. I threw it." One of her hands dug into her sleeve, and she pulled out a thin blade the span of her hand.

"You...you..."

"Is it so surprising? At Sunspear, they taught all who would learn how to defend ourselves."

She pulled him towards her again, resting her cheek against his chest.

"There were four men in the tree," she said, her voice small. "When I pulled away from you, I threw a knife into one of their throats. And this one...I would have taken him sooner, but you were all jumbled together, and I could not see the backs of either of their heads."

She had killed two men? With throwing knives? Ashara? He looked to where she had indicated, and beneath a half-crumpled shrub sprawled a fourth man with a knife in his throat.

"I...I did not know you could do that."

"You never asked."

Silence, then they were both laughing, half mad with belated terror and their limbs weak with relief. They collapsed together to the ground, both wheezing, and some time later Ashara was sobbing into his bare chest, her tears soothing on his burning skin.

"I hope we never—come back—to this—damn—city," she said between hiccups as her hand gripped his shoulder. "Every—time I'm here, I've—had to—to kill men."

 _She has had to kill men? Before, in King's Landing?_ What in gods' name had happened to her, and how could he be so negligent as not to know a thing?

Before he could ask her meaning, she stiffened, then drew back, her swollen eyes widening.

"Ned! You're bleeding."

Her hand came away from his upper arm dark with blood, and for a moment they simply stared at it.

"I wasn't injured," said Ned, dazed, but even as he spoke his arms and left shoulder roared to life with fiery pain.

"Gods—both your arms—"

Her voice stopped in her throat, for the castle beyond the godswood seemed suddenly to explode with the clamour of chaos. Their eyes met, horror and alarm blending between them, and at once both were in their feet.

"There must be a coordinated attack of some sort," Ned said, his chest clenching again. "Something of large scale, and we were only an afterthought."

"No matter. We must go find out what is happening." Her voice was slowly smoothing back to normal, but he nonetheless heard the tension.

For a trice, he wanted to insist he take her somewhere out of the castle, or to lock her safely behind some door, but then he glimpsed the knife in her hand. Ned thought of the man dropping like a puppet, thought of the silent manner in which the two men met their deaths, and decided he would not insult her so. It would seem his Ash was no shrinking maiden, but really, it should not have surprised him.

Ashara scrambled to Ned's shirt first, and cut strips out of the bottom with her knife before tying them around the cuts on Ned's arms. The pressure stung too, but the pain held him to reality, and he was glad for it.

"I cannot do anything for your shoulder," she frowned, helping him into what remained of his shirt. "Just remember there is a rather long gash there, and be careful. It did not look deep."

He nodded, they gathered his cloaks and furs, and Ashara helped Ned strap Ice around his waist. Ned asked then if she wished to retrieve her knives as well, but she had frozen like a rabbit sighting a hawk, and he had been the one to pull the blades from two men and wipe them clean on their black shirts.

"Who sent them, do you think?" Ashara asked as she took back the blades with unsteady hands and somehow made them disappear up her layered sleeves.

Ned shook his head. “It’s too dark to see much even if we search them for identifiers," he said. The sporadic sounds of men's shouts and blades scraping blades seemed to echo from the keep proper, and they frowned at one another. "We must leave them here and hope whoever sent them will not have the chance to remove their bodies." The wall was high, and here around the godswood, all seemed quiet.

"Alright. Well, I am rather impatient for answers." She finished tucking away her last knife, smoothed her robes about her arms in the perfect image of womanly grace, and made to lead the way back to the castle.

"Wait!"

She turned, and he caught her arm to draw her close.

"Let me kiss you first."

Her eyes widened, but her arm slipped around his waist and parted her lips that were swollen from crying, and Ned kissed her hard on the mouth, feeling his desire rise so sudden and sharp that it was near to pain.

When they pulled apart, both hard of breath, she gave him a bewildered little smile.

"When we return to Winterfell, I want to see just how good you are with those knives."

She seemed struck dumb, but then broke out into a smile like the rising sun, colour returning to her pale cheeks.

"It does not disturb you, then? What I can do…" The smile slipped, and her eyes darted to the bodies behind him. "What I have done?"

"Disturb me?" He cupped her cheek with one hand and waited until her eyes were on him once more. "You likely saved both our lives tonight. If you heat my blood any more, I fear I shall burst into flame where I stand."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So lucky to have Captain Fuckew McHugerage helping me come up with exciting storylines and Cmedina1 helping me make my writing literate :)


	14. From This Day

Back in the council chambers once more, with men bellowing orders around her, Ashara absently ran her thumb along the flat of a blade in her sleeve. It was smooth and cool under her hand, but she swore she could still feel the slick lifeblood of the men she had killed. 

Had this particular knife gone into the throat or into the skull? Her fingers traced up to the hilt and found the two nicks in the grip. Ah, so her favourite then. This knife had sliced open the artery on the first assassin’s neck. Perhaps there was dried blood on the grip…but no, Ned had wiped both clean before handing them back to her. 

Did that make four men now? No, but it must be five, because the baker’s son had died from an infection ten days after. Ashara had gone alone through the alleyways to find out the truth. He had deserved the suffering, but Ashara could not wipe their faces from her mind. 

A lifetime ago, when Elia had been betrothed to Rhaegar, they had all come to King’s Landing so that the future queen could be introduced to court. Had Ashara been seventeen then? A child, really, though she had thought herself so wise about the world.

The Red Keep had been stifling and oppressive, for all that the halls were wide and the windows reached to the skies. The king truly was a mad beast, and Ashara had not known it was possible to lose feeling in her legs from fear. She was with Elia and her other friends, but the castle walls seemed to close in on them, tighter each day, and though it was said the Red Keep was the one place in the city where the air was fresh, they often found it hard to breathe. 

One day, reckless and naïve girls that they were, Jynesse Manwoody and Ashara had convinced Elia to sneak out of the castle. ‘Just to explore all the wards,’ they had said. Was Elia not at all curious? In passing, Rhaegar had told Elia of the tunnels he made use of, sneaking out to play harp for the crowds. Elia had reluctantly agreed. They had told none of the others, for Dyanna and Moriah would never agree to something so perilous, and Larra had recently broken her leg from a fall down the steps. 

They had come out into the city and made their way through Fishmonger’s square, cloaked in the garments they had pilfered from scullery maids. For half the day they wandered without incident, stopping to watch fire-eating dwarves perform and buy roasted chestnuts on the street corner. When they were winding through the alleys that spilled off the Muddy Way, however, they had been surrounded by a gang of eight young men, the leers on their faces leaving no doubt as to their intentions. 

Ashara could not remember feeling any fear—only an annoyance at the unsavoury interruption to their outing. Jynesse had been trained in the martial tradition of House Manwoody and wielded her metal-tipped, multi-tail flail as if it were an extension of her arm. At Sunspear, the master at arms had taught Ashara how to throw blades, and Oberyn had often challenged her to contests for who could hit the swaying straw-stuffed dummy most squarely in the throat. 

Jynesse had pushed Ashara and Elia behind her, and with the first swing of her whip had taken the eye out of the thugs’ leader, making two of them flee at once. The remaining six had drawn daggers, shocked but too prideful to back down against young girls, but Jynesse beat them back, injuring two before one came close enough to strike her with his blade. That was when Ashara had thrown hers, aiming at their throats as she had always practiced. She had felled two and hit the third in his shoulder before it dawned on her precisely what she’d done. 

The three of them had picked gingerly over the bodies of the four men after the injured two had fled, then walked back to the keep in silence. Elia had not said a single word of rebuke for the sheer stupidity of their suggestion, but instead embraced them both, and thanked them for saving her life. 

It was not until much later, alone in the dappled darkness of her chambers, that Ashara had scrunched herself into the corner, desperate to stop shaking from the cold that pierced her core. With little flicks of her arm, she had taken two lives that afternoon—lives squashed from this word, like ants beneath a shoe.. She had stared at her hands in the darkness until her eyes stung, seeing rusty, flaking blood dried into the grooves on her skin. 

When she tried to sleep, she saw behind her eyelids the shocked looks of the grimy-faced men as red spurted from their leathery skin; the black-toothed grimace of one as he grappled at the gash in his neck; the slow, nearly graceful motion of the other as he, bemused, pulled the blade from his throat and examined it before collapsing. 

In the early dawn, she had swallowed her pride and snuck into Jynesse’s chambers, and Ashara had let her friend kiss her and hold her for hours until she was thawed and warm once more. The following week, she had snuck out again—alone in the morning—and asked around in that alleyway until she learned that a butcher’s son had recently been struck with a knife during a brawl of sorts, and died from infection. 

That had been three lives on her conscience—three marks, black on her soul—and now here were two more. She had truly gotten better at throwing her blades in the intervening years, Ashara thought distantly. Oberyn had given her a knowing look when he had seen the bodies from the godswood, and she was certain there had been pride in his smirk. 

Beside her, the boy Oberyn had carried back to the castle seemed to stir, but only frowned and did not regain consciousness. 

When she and Ned had emerged into the inner bailey of the keep, the sounds of melee fighting had mostly ceased. Baratheon and Stark men-at-arms were standing around scattered bodies and bound men dressed in the same black the men in the godswood had worn. 

Jon Arryn had found them along with Ashara’s Dornish guards, all their faces etched with relief that she was unharmed. Ashara had sent them back to the ship to fetch Yli for Ned, then followed Lord Arryn into the council chamber.

The entire castle was in an uproar, and they soon learned that small groups of men in black had scaled the walls in the night and set upon the men-at-arms, who had not had training in guarding the Red Keep and did not know its weaknesses. 

They learned, too, that riots had broken out all over King’s Landing, with bands of thugs setting fires, and dirty, bloody brawls breaking out in the alleyways and squares. The city was already stretched on a razor’s edge from the recent invasion and the presence of so many armies. The riots were like sparks on dry kindling, setting forth explosions of violence that still roared through the streets. 

When the bodies of their assassins had been brought from the godswood and searched, they had found bags of black and red fabric, filled with coins. The few survivors who had climbed the walls could only say that masked men with uncultured accents had approached them in the twilight, giving them money to arm themselves and stir chaos in the castle. 

Ned’s and Lord Arryn’s faces had been hard with rage, and Ned had wrapped his furs tight around her, handed her a goblet of something warm, then slipped away to find King Robert before she could protest. 

A short while later, Oberyn, Paten and Lord Manwoody had been ushered into the council chamber as well, each bleeding from various limbs, Ser Paten limping. They had come to blows with Lannister soldiers in the fighting den, and taken the fight outside, where they were soon set upon by black-clad men. 

The fight had soon turned into a jumbled brawl teeming with humanity, and two Dornish soldiers had been killed, while most others wore some form of injury or other. 

Oberyn had a dark-haired boy of perhaps ten slung over his shoulder, and had settled him next to Ashara on her couch in the back of the chamber. Ashara’s mind was too sluggish to ask any questions.

“Keep an eye on this one would you?” he’d said, grimacing at the deep slash on his face as he scanned her up and down for injury. “He’s like a feral cat. Came out of nowhere and saved my life before hitting his head.”

Ashara had nodded dumbly, hearing his words but not fully understanding. The boy’s taught face was grimy and battered, his hair was matted, and his ribs showed through his thin shirt. He smelled of sweat and blood and unwashed humanity, but Ashara took Ned’s cloak and covered him with it, hoping Ned would not mind. She herself slid close to the roaring fireplace nearby. 

Ned returned with Robert some time later, and after Yli had tended his shoulder and all the attendants had left the chamber, he and Oberyn told the gathered lords of the attacks they had faced. Robert was clearly still drunk, but Jon Arryn had given Ned a pointed look when he mentioned that he had been with Ashara in the godswood. Tywin Lannister, who had slipped unnoticed into the council chamber with a few of his lords, had pinned his pale green eyes so violently to Ashara that she thought his gaze might burn a hole right through her face. Even with the purple shadow on his jaw, he still made her hair stand on end.

“My lords, Your Grace,” mused Lord Roland Crakehall, fingering the black and red cloth coin purses found on the assassins and thugs. “It is clear that the attacks are by Targaryen loyalists.”

All eyes turned to Tywin Lannister’s vassal, and it was Robert who spoke, anger dispelling his drunken slur.

“What? Explain!”

“Your Grace, these are Targaryen colours, and it would only be natural that there are still rogue Targaryen elements loose in the city. They sought to destabilise your rule, no doubt.”

Robert’s fist came down hard on the table, but before he could say more, Lord Hoster Tully was shaking his head. 

“Surely the Targaryens would not give out purses bearing their own colours to the thugs they hired. It is as good as announcing their identity.”

“Perhaps, Lord Tully, that is precisely what they intended to do,” said Tywin Lannister, fingering the fabric. “They wish to show you, Your Grace, that they can still cause mayhem if they so wish. They did manage to scale the walls and find their way to the godswood—”

“This is PIGSHIT!” bellowed Robert, bolting from his chair and topping it with a thud. “Where in seven hells did these loyalists come from? I thought we scoured the city! And the castle?” He turned to one of his lords and gestured wildly with his arms. “Uncle Don?” 

The greying man stood and paced, equally agitated. 

“We took out all the places loyalists might be hiding, and my men have been personally patrolling the streets. We’ve heard damn nothing before this day of any unrest or Targaryen elements. Bo—ahem, Your Grace, I don’t see how this could have happened.”

“But it’s bloody happened! How—”

“Your Grace.” It was Jon Arryn who interrupted, and Robert snapped his head to his Hand.

“Your Grace, while Lord Lannister does make a fair prediction, we have no proof either way. It could be that whoever hired these thugs simply wanted us to believe they were Targaryen loyalists, and so deliberately used their colours.”

“Yes, I do believe Lord Arryn has the right of it,” said Lord Tully, casting his eyes over the Dornish party before pinning them on Ashara, who could not help thinking distantly that surely she had not done anything to warrant so many malicious glances in one night. 

“Perhaps there are those,” he continued, “who would have the king feel he is still under Targaryen threat, and should therefore concede quickly to terms of peace.”

Ashara heard her own voice catch in her throat, and Ned gave her a horrified look. It was clear that most around the table understood exactly what Hoster Tully meant.

Even Lord Manwoody understood the insinuation, and in an instant, he pounded his fist into the table and leaned menacingly over the table, seeming not to feel his injured leg. 

“What in bleeding hells is that supposed to mean, you stinking fish?”

“You forget yourself, my lord!”

“Lord Manwoody!” This was Ned and Jon Arryn joined by Paten, whose own splinted leg was propped straight in front of him. 

Reluctantly, Lord Manwoody was coaxed to sit back down, though the look between Oberyn and Lord Tully was poisonous.

“Lord Tully,” Ned began, obviously trying for a conciliatory tone but failing, “surely you cannot mean that Dorne—”

“Lord Stark, defending your future cronies already, I see,” Tully sneered. 

“Hoster, please—” This was Lord Arryn, but Oberyn had stood, interrupting. 

“Lord Tully, you will forgive my Lord Manwoody’s outburst, I trust.” Oberyn’s voice was low and smooth like the underside of a snake. Ashara shivered. She had known him long enough to realize the danger it meant. 

“He was merely angered by your…insinuations against all of Dorne. Surely you did not mean any insult by your words. We all misspeak at times.”

Ashara’s eyes narrowed. Did Hoster Tully know how close Oberyn was to reaching out and choking the life from him, damn the consequences?

But Hoster Tully only scoffed. 

“I spoke only truth. Whether you find insult, _Prince_ Oberyn, is up to you.”

“Lord Tully—”

“No, Lord Arryn, we shall allow Lord Tully his delusions,” said Oberyn, walking towards the man. 

“Delusions my—”

“For you see,” Oberyn continued, still advancing on Tully, whose eyes were narrowing, “you seem to have forgotten that I myself was attacked and injured, my men were attack—”

“We can all put up a good show—”

Oberyn laughed, a menacing sound. 

“How dare you? You have the audacity to claim I have somehow planned this? They injured me, they injured my lords, and they nearly _killed_ a woman who is a sister to me—how _dare_ you?” 

Suddenly he was only a hair’s breadth from Tully’s face, his hand digging into the old man’s shoulder. The sound of blades sliding from sheaths echoed in the chamber as Tully men-at-arms stood and half drew their swords, and Oberyn’s men lunged forth with their spears tilted forward. 

“Oi!” bellowed King Robert. All froze.

“This is fucking treason! Calm the fuck down and put your blades away before I have all your heads on pikes! Gods’ balls, I’m the one who should be fucking pissed off. Sit the fuck down!”

All complied, though not before Ashara heard Lord Manwoody muttering that Hoster Tully like as not sent those men after her for her impending marriage. Yet, before any more could be said, running footsteps echoed in the hall outside, and a young Baratheon guard rushed to the doorway, gasping for air.

“Your Grace! Your Grace!” 

King Robert motioned him inside. “Breathe, man, you look like the Stranger’s nipping your arse.”

The young man panted for a moment, hands on knees, before bowing to the king, his face suddenly white. 

“Your Grace, I come from the prison tower. All our men there have had their heads bashed in, and Ser Gregor Clegane is nowhere to be found.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

For all the years that Ashara had spent in Sunspear, not once had she seen a sane man so possessed with rage as Robert Baratheon was in the moments that followed. The new king had flipped the big table on its side, his face flushed a dark crimson, his shouts filling every crevice of the room. Even Oberyn, who had seized Lord Tywin by his shirt before other lords had pried them apart, did not look nearly so crazed in his anger.

“—bloody FUCKING incompetence—what in fuck’s name is the man—give chase NOW!” King Robert was still bellowing orders and insults in tandem, and now the vehement accusations the Dornishmen hurled at the Lannister men and their returning insults layered atop the king’s voice. 

No one dared draw weapons again, but hands grappled at throats, and grunts of pain came from those struck in the heat of argument, especially as King Robert no longer looked concerned with checking the fighting. 

Amid the sudden havoc, Ashara had not realised she’d bolted from her chair and let her goblet fall to smithereens around her feet until she swayed and stumbled into the wall beside her. 

_Get a grip on yourself,_ she ordered. _You will not faint like some delicate leaf._

Across the chamber, she caught Ned’s glance as he pried apart two red-faced, shouting men. He made several steps towards her before he came to his senses and stopped himself. 

She shook her head at him, though the mix of anger and shock and dismay on his face did enough to calm her nerves somewhat. Yet her head still spun, numb as she was with her own shock and confusion. 

_Escaped. Escaped. The man who had forced his monstrous body on Elia, then caved in her skull. Escaped._

How in seven hells had this happened? Her eyes turned of their own accord to the Lannister men—to their lord, who sat glaring at the melee, protected by his vassals. Had this been Clegane taking advantage of the chaos to escape his fight? Or had Tywin Lannister orchestrated all, to make sure Clegane had no chance to accuse him the next day? Ashara could swear there was something like satisfaction beneath those pale green eyes, and it made her stomach turn. 

Her whole body hurt as it shook, from fury or dread she did not know, and she wrapped the furs tighter around herself, for there was nothing she could do. It was a maddening feeling, this helplessness. 

But perhaps...

For a deranged moment, the urge swooped like a vulture into her mind. What if she hurled her knife into Tywin Lannister’s throat at this moment? Oh, her life would be forfeit, but the vile cat would succumb to justice, and the humiliating stories they would tell of the great lion of Casterly Rock forever after…Tywin Lannister, felled by the blade of a Dornish maid. 

The thought left her as quickly as it had come, and reason returned. She squeezed the blade in her hand until it had surely drawn blood. There would be no more killing tonight. 

From the side of her eye, she saw Jon Arryn smash a goblet against the wall, attempting for some semblance of order. Had chaos not reigned supreme, he would have caught the attention of the lords, but as it was, few heard him over their own shouts.

Not allowing herself time for thought, Ashara strode to a side-table where an empty pitcher still stood, picked it up, and hurled the entire thing into the fire.

A great crackling _boom,_ then all were silent, some staring at her as if she had lost her wits. 

“My lords, Your Grace. I believe Lord Arryn requests your heed.”

Jon Arryn managed to restore some semblance of order and called for discussions for how to proceed with this news, though now the accusations were beginning to escalate once more. Robert seemed to have deflated—it would seem his evening of drinking had caught up to him—and was leaning against the table, rubbing absently at his temple. 

Ned still sat straight as a tree to Robert’s left, unmoving, jaw tight. 

Ashara felt her skull was filled with bees. All was whirring and confused in her thoughts—even the outrage had fled, replaced by a limb-numbing impuissance. 

“Explain this, then, Lord Tywin.” Oberyn was snarling. “How is it that riots break out and assassins scale the castle walls the day you are accused of my sister’s murder? How convenient, that they stole attention away from the prison tower.”

“Careful, Prince Oberyn,” Tywin Lannister all but drawled. “Such implications are baseless.”

“After this morning, you expect me to believe they are _baseless_ ? Do you take this whole room for _fools_?” Several lords, including Lord Tully, shifted uncomfortably in their seats. Ashara felt her own jaw tighten, and indignant rage rose like hot smoke from a fire, clogging her chest and making breathing onerous.

“Armory Lorch’s words are not evidence, Prince Oberyn. They were the desperate words of one dying criminal, and I have already told you. I knew nothing of the violence against your sister and her children, just as I knew nothing of the events tonight. My men are helping to subdue much of the rioting as we speak.”

“Lorch’s accusations would not be the words of only one criminal had Clegane not _conveniently_ escaped!”

“Clegane was no fool. He saw the chance and took it. Perhaps your reputation for foul fighting precedes you.”

Oberyn narrowed his eyes. “So you do know what they say of me. If you were a wise man you would not test those rumours.”

“Is that a threat, my lord?”

“Only friendly counsel. You truly stand before us all and say you had no part in your bannerman escaping the prison? That Gregor Clegane fought his way out on his own and killed ten armed men with his bare hands? I believe not a word!” There were sounds of assent among the Dornish lord.

Tywin Lannister only scoffed and sat back imperiously in his chair. 

“Baseless accusations all. They did call him the Mountain Who Rides. Eight feet tall…more giant than man, really. Naturally, I deny any involvement, and it is insulting you would think I obstructed justice. It is...understandable that you are upset with these events, Prince Oberyn, but the search parties will surely do their best. This is an event no one could have predicted.”

The danger was blazing in full force in Oberyn’s eyes, and Ashara could almost see into his mind, see exactly how he would like to string Tywin Lannister up by the toes and gut him like a pig. 

Jon Arryn has seen it too, and just how close Oberyn was once more standing to Lannister. Perhaps wishing to avoid any more violent outbursts, he looked between the two men and made to rise. Yet before he could speak, the sound of a chair scraping on the floor cut him off, and Ned stood over the table, his face like stone, his jagged eyes almost black in the shadows.

“Lord Lannister, have you no shame?” His fists were clenched, and even from the back Ashara could see the veins jumping in his forearm.”

“All present in the room knows exactly how events played out, both during the Sack and tonight. You have ordered grave acts, murdered an innocent princess and two babes in arms, and tonight you are responsible for dozens more deaths through your hired thugs. To avoid your bannerman implicating you once more, you have committed treason by helping him escape. You have endangered the life of your king and all the other lords, and that is to say nothing of your attempt to murder the woman I am to marry. So I ask again, have you no shame, my lord?”

Silence, as if in a tomb. 

For long moments Ashara did not know if she wished to embrace him or slap him for his blunt candour. Finally, Tywin Lannister also rose.

“These are grave accusations you have laid out against me, Lord Stark. I must say, your inventive mind impresses me.”

Ned opened his mouth to protest, but Lannister spoke over him.

“I will let these insults go, as the…folly of untutored youth. My words to you remain the same. You have no proof for your fanciful story—none, save, perhaps, the words of a criminal, mad with the loss of blood and impending death and…who knows what else. I suggest, my lord, that you exercise caution when speaking in future. I cannot imagine how the North will survive if their lord utters only insults.”

Ned looked mutinous, and Ashara feared now that he, not Oberyn, would strike Lord Tywin. But Jon Arryn’s knotted hand was now on his shoulder, his white head bent near Ned’s ear, whispering. A tense heartbeat, then Oberyn turned and said something under his breath to Ned as well, his hand coming to clasp Ned’s arm. 

For a moment more, Ned stood frozen. Then his eyes found her, and despite the firestorm building in her chest, she managed to nod at him and offer a little smile. She hoped he understood. 

Ned’s jaw worked, a savage glint in his eyes, but in the end, he did understand. With a curt bow to those around the table, he dashed his chair against the wall and stormed out the room. 

“My lords,” said Lord Arryn, when Ned’s footsteps had disappeared down the hall. His voice was soft but commanding, and Ashara found herself hoping King Robert would have this man advise him for decades to come. “These are trying circumstances indeed. I understand that many have been wronged, but please. We are all here for peace, are we not? I hope that we can find a way forward that will satisfy all.”

In the end, Lord Tywin had offered to settle grievances in a way worthy of his Lannister forebears: reparations, in the form of gold, paid to Dorne for twenty years to atone for the crime of his failure to control his men. Oberyn’s face had turned black as death, and he had exploded once more, for how dare Tywin Lannister think his sister’s life could be repaid with mere coin?

But Ashara had no more anger to summon, only a bone-deep despondency for the realities of the world. This would be the extent of the justice she could gain for Elia. What was the other choice? Return to war? And what more was war than a trial by combat using thousands of innocent lives? Where was the justice in that?

Oberyn looked on the verge of throwing the offer back in Lannister’s face—Lord Manwoody had already suggested vehemently that he do so—but Lord Toland and Paten had whispered furiously in his ear. From her seat on the couch, Ashara caught his eye, and hoped he saw in her glance the promise he’d made only hours ago. _I will do as Doran would._ And Prince Doran would accept these terms in a heartbeat. The drought of winter had returned, and the Lannisters were offering enough coin to buy food for thousands. 

Finally, as the night sky through the windows began paling to dawn, Oberyn, simmering with anger, had grudgingly agreed to Lord Tywin’s terms, and Jon Arryn seemed to deflate with tangible relief. 

Later, she joined Oberyn at the stern of their ship to watch the hazy sunrise.

“That boy,” Ashara asked. “What exactly do you intend to do with him?”

They had brought him to a small cabin, and Old Yli had washed him twice with her strongest soaps. Oberyn had told her that the boy named Bronn had been on the receiving end of a beating from two older boys when Oberyn and Paten had come upon them in the street. Oberyn had pulled the boys off, then given Bronn one of his knives and half his purse, so he could get his wounds seen to, and perhaps a good meal besides. 

Later, as they had brawled with the Lannister men, one had come at Oberyn’s back with a dagger, and young Bronn had descended from a balcony and broken the man’s neck. He had promptly toppled over with the dead man and hit his head hard on the cobblestones. They would not know how he fared until he woke. 

Oberyn shrugged. 

“As I say, the boy saved my life. If he survives, he can train with me to be a knight. He’s got a rather smart mouth. His company should be entertaining.”

They had stood in silence for a long while then until finally, Ashara spoke again. 

“I will help you. Whatever revenge you and Doran have planned, I will help you. I cannot stand knowing Tywin Lannister walks his castle, satisfied he has won. Whatever it is you wish me to do, I will do it.” 

Oberyn gave her a sad smile then and chucked her under the chin. Instinctively, she shot him the same harassed look she had perfected as a child, and he laughed. 

“We have talked of our plans for vengeance, my brother and I. He long suspected Tywin Lannister ordered the murders. Besides now searching for Gregor Clegane, our plans have not changed.” His eyes found Ashara’s, and the vehemence in them made her want to look away. She did not.

“I know what I said of justice, but your revenge does not sound so bad this morning.”

“No, Ashara. You were right. What Doran and I have planned…I don’t think it is what Elia would have wanted. This—Lorch killed in combat, Lannister paying Dorne so we can better feed the smallfolk—this, Elia would be happy with.”

“Oberyn…”

“I will not tell you any more. This is my vengeance, and Doran’s. It is the ambition of House Martell now. You have already done more than the ties of love and friendship demanded of you, and now you must go and live your life. 

“But—”

“This Ned Stark seems a good sort, Ash. If I am not mistaken, last night he bled for you. Go north, live, have children and help your husband navigate being a lord. He will need it. Think no more of this. Elia would have my head if I embroiled you in our schemes, for they would sit poorly on your conscience.”

She felt her brows knit, even as the tight knot of dread seemed to loosen in her stomach. Some little voice in her wanted to insist, but the greater part knew that this was a gift Oberyn was offering her, and that she should take it with open palms. She laid a tentative hand on his.

“Half my heart is always in Dorne. With you, with Larra and the others. If you ever have true need of me—”

“I will tell you. You can be assured of that. Doran and I are not so generous as to let that scheming mind of yours go completely.” 

**O~O~O~O~O**

Despite the tension that seemed to cling like soot about King’s Landing during the next days, King Robert had insisted that, with the peace fully negotiated, all resources would be put forward to a grand wedding feast. If the realm was not so fractured and ill-at-ease, Ned had told her during one of their walks in the godswood, Robert would have ordered a three-day tourney besides. 

Ashara had not been able to help her wry smile.

“I do hope the king does not intend to keep spending as he does,” she said under her breath, for guards now trailed them from afar during these walks. “The treasury may be full now, but gold dragons do not appear from thin air.”

Ned shook his head, looking assured.

“Jon is with him. I am not worried. He will rein in Robert’s spending and his worse instincts. As he has been since we were eight.”

He smiled at her then, pulling them beneath a tree. 

“And fortunately, I do not have to contend with any of it. I cannot wait to leave this city and never return.”

Ashara quite agreed. King’s Landing had not endeared itself to her over the years.

“When shall I meet Lord Dayne?” Ned had asked, and Ashara noticed he was careful not to say the word ‘brother’ around her. Though she was half embarrassed that even this small thing could cut like a blade, his consideration warmed her. 

“If you do not mind coming to the ship, then you should return with me today. He intends only to come ashore for our wedding. The air in the city will do his lungs no favours.”

Dev had arrived by ship two days following the escape of Gregor Clegane, ostensibly to attend her wedding, but Ashara knew that Doran had sent him. No doubt Doran had heard the news of Clegane’s escape within hours and wished to prevent Oberyn from any rash action. Naturally, Gregor Clegane had not been found, nor the real force behind the attacking thugs identified. It was no matter. All on their ship knew it had been Tywin Lannister pulling the puppet strings behind it all, and every time Ashara’s mind wandered to the matter, she wished to shatter goblets against walls. 

The days before her wedding seemed to blend together into one. Larra had somehow requisitioned a seamstress and her assistants, and each morning they came to work on a new gown for the wedding—a detail that had not even entered Ashara’s mind. The women fawned over her—marvelling at her eyes and her hair, whispering about her face behind their hands—and Ashara was reminded of how acutely uncomfortable such interactions always were. 

Larra had rolled her eyes as she’d always done. 

“Would that I had your problem,” she said dryly. “Puck up, Ash. It’s no good. Even with that scowl on your face, you are still exquisite.” 

If Ned had not been recruited by Jon Arryn to take care of some military detail or other, he would send word, and they would meet in the godswood, walking and planning their life together. They did not talk about death then—not about Lyanna or Elia or Arthur—and in particular, never about Galina. Instead, they talked of Ned’s provisions for Winter, of the route they would take back to Winterfell and the people who would be in their household. Mundane things, perhaps, but Ashara found she wished to talk of the mundane for hours. 

The only singular event in the week was when she had asked Dev to send Allyria north, if not right away, then at the very least in a couple years time, when winter truly ended. She had not thought there would be any debate over the matter. He was not made to care for children—he had said so himself—and his only objection to her sister going north should have been her health. 

Yet when she had spoken, Dev had roundly refused her: not during winter, and not during summer either. Allyria was going to stay at Starfall until she married, and there would be no more discussion. 

He had not given her a direct reason, and Ashara had grown so exasperated with the years of pent-in frustrations that their simple discussion had erupted into the most vicious quarrel she’d ever had with Dev. Finally, he had thrown up his hands, his throat hoarse.

“Damn it to seven hells, Ashara, must you make me voice it? I cannot bear to be the only one left in the bloody castle!”

She had said no more of Allyria coming to live with her. 

On the day of the wedding, Old Yli and Larra had spent hours arranging her hair, applying kohl to her eyes and stain to her cheeks, and generally making a fuss about her. All the while, Old Yli, for all that she knew of Ashara’s miscarriage the year before, took the role of instructing her on what to expect from her wedding night, and Larra had been wholly incapable of keeping her laughter contained. 

Dev had walked her into the sept, for there was no weirwood tree in King’s Landing, but Ned did not seem to mind. “We will kneel before the weirwood at Winterfell,” he had told her. “For now, a wedding in a sept is as good as any other.” 

The vows had come to her lips almost unbidden, as if someone else entirely had said them from outside her body, and when Ned had placed his cloak over her shoulders, Ashara thought for a moment that she must be living some dream. How many times had she dreamed of this in the past year, only to wake and know that it could no longer be? Now the similar fear of waking stirred for a moment, raising its cold head, but Ned had pulled her into him and kissed her, and he had been solid, and warm, and true. 

And later, up in their wedding chamber with all the festivities and dancing and toasts behind them, Ned had kissed every inch of her fevered skin, and she knew that nothing had ever been so real. 

**O~O~O~O~O**

Morning light snuck through the gaps in the drapes of their marriage chamber, and Ned squinted into the brightness. For a moment all was confused and bleary, but then he turned his head, and Ashara’s dark hair tickled his nose. He looked down at her, serene in her sleep, so fair and lovely he felt his heart wrench. 

_My wife,_ he thought in wonder, and for some moments he could almost pretend all the misfortune that followed Harrenhal had not torn apart the fabric of his life. This was as it should have been from the start, he and Ash married, sharing their bed and their lives for the decades to come, and for just an instant, all was right. 

Then, unbidden, Lady Catelyn’s tentative face flashed in his mind, followed by Hoster Tully’s blood-veined eyes. His goodfather had not stayed in the capital for Ned’s wedding, and had left Ned a terse note indicating, amid thinly veiled threats for his grandson’s safety and position, that he would send Robb north in due time.

Ned shook his head fiercely, trying to dispel Tully’s voice bouncing insistently in his skull.

 _My wife,_ he thought again, but this time the insistent guilt crept up his throat.

“Where have you gone, Ned? Your thoughts seem a thousand miles away.”

Her voice startled him back from his freefall into the darkness. He had not noticed her waking, and he turned to see her bright eyes peering curiously at him.

He shook his head again.

“Sorry to wake you. It’s nothing to worry you.”

“If it worries you, it ought to worry me,” she said, her voice still husky from sleep. “That was what our vows meant last night, no?’

For some moments he struggled against his better judgement, but she did not turn those purple eyes from him, and he stood no chance. 

“Hoster Tully spoke to me the morning of the trial by combat and accused me of…well, it matters little. I keep hearing his words in my head, for all that his accusations are ridiculous.”

“I see.” She turned towards the canopy. “Lady Catelyn no longer walks this earth. You vowed to be hers until the end of her days. Marrying me now breaks no vows.”

“No, that…that is not the only reason. I fear I did not treat her as I should have.”

Ashara frowned. 

“I cannot imagine you being anything but considerate and kind.”

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. 

“I tried my best to be kind, but…I went to her wedding bed with my mind full of you. I could not help it, but it was still despicable of me."

He felt her warm palm on his arm, her heat like a balm. She opened her mouth as if to say something, but then shut it again, her cheeks colouring.

"What were you going to say?

She shook her head.

"Ashara?"

"No, it was callous and spiteful and I am wicked for even thinking it. You shan’t hear it from my mouth."

He looked at her intently, studying her.

"You were going to say that she likely thought of Brandon at the same time."

Ashara’s entire face flushed pink, and she turned away from him.

"I did not know you’d become so good at reading my face."

"I fear I have not. ’Tis only a logical thought. She had known him as her betrothed for years but never met me. And you are right. I have no doubt she did think of him."

She turned back to him almost tentatively, and he laid a hand on the dip of her waist.

"And yet you cannot help the guilt?"

"No, I cannot. I know it’s all beyond reason, but still, it festers."

Ashara let out a long breath, settling back into the pillows. 

“It vexes me that she still occupies your thoughts, though I would think you heartless if she did not. Feeling defies reason, and sometimes I wonder if we would all suffer less if we had hearts of stone.”

Ned frowned, drawing her close so she was tucked into his chest. 

“I only know that I am glad my own heart is flesh and blood. For all its suffering, its joys make my life more than just duty.”

He felt her eyes on him again, considering him, and the conclusions she made must have pleased her, for she smiled and pressed a slow kiss into his neck. 

“I will love both of the boys as my own, I swear it,” she said. “You need not feel you are doing Lady Catelyn any wrong.”

“I know you will. When I saw you with Jon, I thought my heart would burst. I have no doubt you will be a mother to them both.”

“And the rest…we bear our burdens and carry on, I suppose. I only know that mine are lighter when you are holding me like this.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

“You will come visit soon when winter ends up there in the North.”

She and Dev stood on the docks of the Red Keep, the sea wind whipping their hair over their faces. She had taken her leave of all the others, and Dev had been the last to embrace her goodbye.

“I will Dev,” she smiled. “You know I will.”

“And don’t tarry with children. I expect your firstborn to come live with me once they’re old enough.”

Ashara raised a brow and couldn’t help a surprised laugh.

“Since when do you like children, to be actively seeking mine? I should think Lyrie will be enough work for you.”

Her brother gave her a patronising smirk. 

“You’re right, of course. Children do baffle me. Nonetheless. You’ll foster your first child with me.”

She narrowed her eyes. He was being rather insistent for a situation still in the abstract. 

“What are you up to?”

“I should think I’m being rather obvious, my brilliant sister. Now that you’re marrying, I won’t have to. Your first child is going to be my heir.”

She felt her mouth drop open, and it took her a moment to remember herself and shut her jaw with a snap. Dev was _what?_

“Well, to be precise, you’ll be my heir—you _are_ my heir—but I don’t intend to die much earlier than you. Come Ash, don’t look so shocked. You did know Starfall would go to you eventually.”

“I knew no such thing! I always imagined you would marry, that it was only a matter of time!”

Her brother had the gall to look earnestly shocked. 

“You’re telling me you never knew about Pateck?” he asked, naming the Braavosi trader who had been his paramour since Ashara had understood the concept. 

“No, I know about that,” she ground out. “I just assumed you would marry anyway.”

“Oh, my winsome sister, to be completely honest, I don’t even think I could bed with a woman. My plan was always for you to marry, and I would get one of your children as my heir. It’s not exactly uncommon.” His smile deepened. 

“Now, give me another kiss and be on your way. You’re holding everyone up.”

Ashara was well aware. Ned and the boatman had been in the dinghy for some time now. 

She bit her lip and kissed her brother again, then held onto him tight, the only brother she had left. 

“You really intend for my child to inherit Starfall? A child who will be raised a Stark and so far away?”

“Are you saying their mother is going to start worshiping the Old Gods and eating bland food?”

Ashara rolled her eyes. “Of course not, but my children will all grow up worshipping as their father does.”

Dev shrugged. “We’re hardly fanatics, Ash. I’ll send you up a septa and your children will learn the basics.”

“I’m sure she will be right at home in the great sept Ned plans to build at Winterfell,” Ashara said, unable to help herself giving him a sideways look.

Dev waved his hand. “Winterfell is one of the biggest castles in the realm. You can find an empty room to paste some likenesses on the walls, surely.”

“Dev—“

“Ashara. This is the best way, trust me. Any child you raise will be as Dayne as they come, and the worthiest heir for our house. And besides. They will be fostered with me. They won’t escape my terrible influence.”

“Oh Dev.” And suddenly Ashara didn’t know if she was laughing or crying, and wanted desperately to spend another day in which her brother teased her thus. Would he be alright, at Starfall with the ghosts of Arthur wandering the halls? And when would she see him again? 

In a flash of impulse, Ashara reached into her robes and pulled out the little shell she had given Arthur on the beach all those years ago, pressing it into Dev’s hand. 

“What’s this?”

Ashara bit her lip against the stabbing pain that had yet to dull. 

“I made our brother wear it for many years. I…I am not certain why I think you should have it now.”

He stared long at the pearlescent shell, gleaming in the sunlight, then looked at her, the rims of his eyes turning red. 

“I think you are right. I would take this, and keep it with me as Arthur did.”

Ashara sucked in a sharp breath, for she had not expected the ache that bloomed in her very being to be at once so sweet and bitter. She managed a laugh that perhaps turned to a sob, and looked away to compose herself. 

“You mustn’t forget to write, and to make Lyrie write. And you must take care of yourself, you hear me? I will be very vexed with you if I find you the worse for wear next time I see you.”

“I don’t doubt it. Take care and dress warm up there, _Ahatu_.” She nodded, and he kissed her forehead. 

“Goodbye _Ahu-i._ ”

“Goodbye Ash.”

With one last smile at her grinning brother, she turned toward where her husband waited, and ran to meet her new life. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone commented a few chapters back that a dead Gregor would mean less trouble in the future. I mean, lol yes, I do agree, but do I seem like the kind of person to spare these characters trouble? Clegane the Outlaw is going to give a lot of people a lot of headaches for years to come. Gotta keep everyone on their toes, you know?  
> A very huge thanks to a reddit user called r/stormrunner74 for commenting this idea when the premise of this story was just a plot bunny. Idk if they’re reading this I do hope they are :) And thanks to my two betas!  
> And of course, thanks to everyone for reading this far. I realise this prologue has been rather…long, and it’s like, not really the premise I promised in the blurb. That will begin now. Thanks for sticking around, and I would love to hear suggestions about the future direction of this story!
> 
> Oh, and just a clarification: Ned is not going to claim Jon is Ashara’s child. And he’s not going to have him legitimised at this point. Like in canon, he’s going to refuse to talk about Jon’s mother, period. I’ve gotten a few comments about this, so I’m sorry to disappoint. Both Ned and Ash have a whole tangle of logistical and emotional reasons for doing this, though as you’ll see, they can’t agree on what to tell Jon either.  
> If you want me to give you all my reasons in a rant I could, but the interesting bits I plan to weave into the story anyway. Obviously we all have different views on this, and for me, keeping Jon a Snow and not telling anyone any specifics about his mother would fit Ned’s motivations and character best, even in this AU.


	15. PART I: Winterfell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so it begins, (in 300, for my convenience.) Please see endnotes for dates changes and character ages.

_Winterfell_

_300 AC_

_Seventeen Years Later_

Arthur knew now that eating the cold egg in the morning had been a mistake.

They had set out at sunrise, their party of five and twenty, to see yet another deserter beheaded—the fourth this year. The man had died well. Robb said so, in any case, though Arthur had not yet determined what 'dying well' looked like. Each of the six beheadings he had seen thus far had looked the same—the men always haggard, half-frozen and half-dried like venison jerky, their faces resigned and stiff, and their bodies seeming too scrawny to hold the ten pints of blood that Arthur had read flowed through a grown man.

Still, his brother always insisted they died well, and Arthur determined that once he was older, he too would be so sure of these things.

The blood had always looked the same, too—red as sweet Dornish wine over the summer snow, though by now old Flea was no longer startled by the splatter of steaming blood. This morning, the head of the deserter had rolled in a crooked, crimson line towards Theon, one of Father's wards. Theon had stopped it with his foot, shooting a wry grin at Robb before nudging it back towards the body for burial. Arthur could still see the tangle of blood-matted hair over the grimy face, and again his stomach turned.

Oh, the egg had most certainly been a terrible mistake. The sight of blood always made him sick.

"You alright, Art?" His other brother Jon slowed his horse to fall in beside him, lean and tall and dark on his horse. He seemed to stretch taller by the day and now had to bend down to study Arthur's face with his grey eyes. "You seem a bit green."

Arthur swallowed and nodded, hoping his stomach would settle. He did not wish to embarrass Father again by being sick as he was the first time he had come to witness an execution. He had been but nine then. Now he was twelve, and as Father always said, winter was coming. They were in their tenth year of summer, and already the morning air nipped at Arthur's nose, hissing of the coming chill. He would have to start being tough like his brothers and Theon. Even Samwell Tarly, their father's other ward, had looked halfway a warrior this day, his pudgy face betraying no change as he helped the soldiers bury the deserter.

"Art's likely regretting the egg he had before we left," came his twin sister's voice to his other side, and Arthur turned to give her a harassed look. Elia, ever curious, had insisted on coming to see the executions when Father had deemed Arthur old enough. Neither she nor Arya ever seemed affected by the spurting blood and the sound of steel scraping bone, and Arthur ground his teeth, the familiar frustrations resurfacing at the irony of his name. It did not help that Lia topped him by half a head now, and was a better rider besides.

"Oh, it can't be so bad," she was saying now, easily riding a tight circle around them. "At least you did not have any of the fried ham. It was so greasy I can still taste the fat on the roof of my mouth."

"Gods' sake, shut _up_ , Lia!" His stomach flipped violently yet again, while beside him, Jon burst out laughing, though he choked it back and offered a sheepish grin when Arthur glared at him.

"Are we tormenting poor Artie again?" Now it was Arya who rode up to them. "You're looking peaky, baby brother."

Arthur tried and failed to keep the scowl from his face, equal parts embarrassed and frustrated on top of his sloshing stomach. This really was shaping up to be the lousiest morning in a long while.

Arya must have seen his face darken, for her belly laugh was loud enough to startle Flea, and unlike Jon, she saw no reason to hide it for his sake.

"Let's leave Arthur to his suffering. Race the two of you to the bridge?"

And in a shower of upturned snow, they were off: Jon, intent and serious, tearing off after a laughing Arya, while Lia cursed her sister for starting before she was ready, but managed to pull ahead of both before long.

In the valley below, Robb turned his bright red head up to them, his grin so wide that Arthur could see it from the hill. In a cloud of white, he and Theon had urged their mounts into canters, while Arya's protests of cheating floated over the air.

Arthur heaved a great sigh. Only the irrationally indignant part of him wished to follow, but there was a reason he usually rode old Flea, the twenty-seven-year-old Dornish steed that was once his mother's.

Riding even at a fast canter usually made Arthur feel as if he were about to die, and Flea had seen enough of the world not to be easily excited past a trot. For a long while he rode alone down the sloping hill, the only sound the crunching of snow beneath hooves, his mind drifting to his latest book detailing the history of the Dance.

Briefly, Arthur wondered if, had he been born a Targaryen, he would be better at riding dragons than he was at riding horses. The thought evaporated just as quickly, though. If they were Targaryens, Lia would most certainly be the dragon rider, while Arthur pored over books on dragon care to help her fly faster.

So deep in thought was he that he did not hear the other horses through the snow until Father and the rest of the party surrounded him. Father drew up beside him, a giant in his layers of furs and dark cloaks. He clapped him on the shoulder and peered curiously at his face. Arthur felt himself blush.

"Everything alright, son?"

"Yes, Father."

Another moment of scrutiny.

"That's good." He gave Arthur a small smile. "I did promise your mother I'd see you were alright."

Arthur nodded, hoping he hid his nausea behind a nonchalant face.

"I am. I've seen this all before."

"One should never get too used to death, Arthur. I know it makes you ill. There's no shame in that."

Arthur wanted to ask if Father had ever felt ill taking off someone's head, even if it was his duty, but he held his tongue. Father always went to the godswood to be alone and clean his sword afterwards, and yet rode tall and strong before his men, his distaste never showing on his face. That was all the answer Arthur needed.

When his father had ridden ahead with Uncle Brynden and a few other men, Sam's large form appeared to his right.

"You didn't want to join your siblings?" asked Sam, always speaking as if Arthur was simply choosing not to race, even though they both knew the truth. Arthur should count himself lucky, he knew. His father never disparaged him for his lack of skill on horseback or in the practice yard, and when he had asked _Amma_ to bring up his becoming a maester one day, Father had not dismissed the notion out of hand.

Sam was not so lucky. Since he had come to Winterfell to foster, Ser Rodrick and Uncle Brynden wrote frequent reports of Sam's poor training to Lord Tarly, and Arthur knew that Lord Tarly had long ago stopped responding. Though Sam was of an age with his brothers, he had not once gone back home to visit.

"No, I think I want some peace and quiet," said Arthur, and Sam nodded. They rode in companionable silence for a while, until one of them—he could not remember who—brought up their recent discoveries in their history books.

Sam was just telling him of the way Northerners used to nail fish barrels differently, to accommodate the bigger fish that once swam in the White Knife, when Robb appeared at the top of the hill in a flash of red. At seventeen, he was nearly as broad and strong as Father, sitting atop his horse like a warrior of old.

"Father and Uncle! Art and Sam! Come quick and see what my sisters have found!" And he disappeared into the thicket once more.

As Arthur nudged Flea forward to catch up with his father, he heard Uncle Brynden's bellowing voice wonder aloud just what mischief the girls could have gotten into now.

"You'll have a hell of a time finding them husbands, Ned," said the Blackfish. Arthur thought that was rich, coming from Uncle Brynden. His father answered with a low chuckle.

"That's up to their mother. She's raised them wild. Besides, they're too young still to talk of marriage."

The trees opened to the riverbank, blanketed with summer snowdrifts, and Arthur saw Theon at the tree-line with six horses standing around him, hesitant to approach whatever it was that his sisters and brothers were crowded around by the river.

They dismounted and approached on foot, the men trudging through the snow in front of him, and as Arthur passed Theon he shot him a questioning look. Theon's eyes grew huge.

"You'll see," he said, his voice reverent and low. "It's the freak."

Suddenly, Lia's delighted laughter seemed to bounce over the snow, just as Uncle Brynden's curses rang atop it, followed by the sounds of swords pulled from scabbards.

"Arya Stark, you get away from that thing!" Uncle Brynden cried, and Arthur struggled forward in an awkward run, trying to find footing.

"She won't hurt me," said Arya, her voice sounding muffled. "And besides, she's injured so badly I don't think she can move much."

"Surely it can't be!" gasped Jory Cassel, the captain of Winterfell's guards, just as Arthur managed to stumble his way to the crowd and emerge beside Jon. He gasped.

The dark blood against the white of the snow hurt his eyes. Half-sunk in the drift, a giant mass of grey fur lay on its side, its flank matted with rusty blood, its breathing shallow and erratic. It was the size of a pony, its head was huge, and its golden eyes gleamed like glassy orbs. Arya crouched near its head, peering at the wound and the jagged broken antler jutting from the exposed flesh. As Arthur felt his stomach protest violently at the gore, he saw his father bend down as well.

"Yes, I believe it is, Jory," he said, his voice calm and level as he removed his glove and put his hand before the giant wolf's snout. For a moment it did not move, but then its nose twitched with interest, and its yellow eyes fixed on Father.

"Still recognize me after these many years?" he heard his father say softly. Arthur felt his eyes stretch too wide for his head.

"A direwolf?" he breathed to no one in particular, and it was Robb who answered.

"Yes," said his brother. "The very one _Amma_ had at Winterfell."

More of their party had gathered now, and a collective gasp rose at Robb's words. It was a well-told tale in the North. At the tail-end of last winter, while Lord Eddard had been off fighting the Ironborn, the Lady of Winterfell had found a young direwolf caught in a storm, the first seen south of the Wall for centuries.

For more than a year, the wolf lived in the castle, following Lady Stark like a lost puppy, for all that she was four feet tall at the shoulders. When Lady Stark received Northern lords or doled out judgements in the name of her husband, the direwolf sat at her feet, as if she were a Winter King of old. Any who thought to question her authority or disparage her southern birth had been driven to silence, if not by the lady's level purple gaze, then by the direwolf's flashing glare.

His siblings had talked of the direwolf sometimes-of how Arya had ridden on her back when their mother was near, and thrown sticks for her in the godswood-but neither Arthur nor Lia had any recollection of her. Some months after Father returned with Theon in tow, she had slipped into the shadows one night, and had not been seen since. Arthur had only been three, and he was always sorry he missed the beast.

But no more. The wolf made a low, pitiful sound in her throat, and Arthur could not bear to look at her bleeding side anymore. He turned his head away, and that was when he noticed that his siblings all had little squirming bundles in their hands. He gasped like a delighted child. The black pup in Lia's arms raised its fuzzy head, sniffed the air, then yawned so big its pink tongue curled up at the end.

Lia laughed again.

"Want to hold him, Artie?"

Unable to tear his eyes away, Arthur let her place the pup in his arms, where he burrowed into the crook of his elbow, then fell promptly back to sleep, warm and soft under his hand.

"There are five of them," said Jon, also smiling, picking up a light grey pup by the scruff and laying it carefully on his shoulder.

"What think you, Farlen," asked Father, and the kennel master Farlen pushed to the front of the party. "Can she be saved?"

Farlen swallowed visibly, but steeled himself and approached the mother wolf, who fixed him with her gaze. He checked the pulse points, then examined the wound, eliciting another whimper when he jostled the antler.

"I can't say for sure, milord," he finally sighed. "She doesn't seem to be dying right this moment. If we can remove the antler and sew her back up—" here he paused and swallowed again—"before the bleeding gets bad, we might have a chance. But then, there's infection to worry about, and that's up to the gods."

"So the chances are slim?" asked Father, a crease appearing between his brows.

"Yes, milord."

"But there is a chance."

"Yes, milord."

Father nodded and rose.

"Jon and Arya, ride back to Winterfell as fast as you can, and bring back some men with one of the big horse-drawn carts. Make sure they hitch steady horses."

"Yes, Father." Jon handed the pup on his shoulder to Robb, while Arya was already trudging back through the snow to where Theon stood with the horses. Beside him, Arthur heard Lia's inhale of breath as she made to protest, but before she could, Father had looked over and sighed, resigned.

"And you too, Elia. No doubt you'll get there first. What will you tell the men?"

Lia smiled.

"I will say, 'My father says to hitch the steadiest horses to one of the big carts. We found an injured direwolf by the river.'"

"That's fine. And once you've relayed the message, go to the kitchens and put some milk in a waterskin. The mother won't like her pups being taken from her side, and might not be able to feed them again."

"Yes, Father!" Lia's eyes were shining with excitement.

"And when you've done that, go find your mother and tell her of what's happened—no, don't argue," for Lia had opened her mouth again. "You won't be any help back here, and your poor mother will want some warning of what is coming."

**O~O~O~O~O**

The morning sun shone orange and warm through the windows of her solar, and Ashara slunk down in her chair, trying to keep the light from her eyes. Before her were scrolls of parchment—ten at least—that had come for her by raven this day.

Most of the kingdoms seemed to believe her three eldest children had reached an appropriate age for marriage, and suddenly the letters asking her opinions on pepper cultivation and innovations on fishing vessels were instead detailing the virtues of daughters, sisters, nieces and granddaughters.

Naturally, most inquiries were for Robb, the future heir to Winterfell and no doubt the kind of goodson that any parent dreamed about. The Glovers, the Karstarks, the Manderlys and Maege Mormont had all written more than once, and even Barbrey Dustin had begun hinting in her letters of late what a capable, affable beauty her brother's daughter was becoming.

There were also those asking after Sansa. A surprising number of Northern, Vale, and even Stormlands houses seemed willing to send a second son to be a lord consort in Dorne and have children who would not carry their family name.

Perhaps their eagerness was understandable. Star of the North, they called her eldest daughter, for Sansa was an heiress, exquisite, and by all accounts a perfect lady. Or perhaps they did not understand that a man marrying the future Lady of Starfall would not, in fact, have dominion over the Dayne lands.

TThough most Dornish nobles did not plan their children's marriages before twenty, a few had nonetheless written to express their interest in Sansa, asking when she would return to Dorne and once again live with her uncle. No doubt they did not wish to be forgotten should Ashara decide to follow northern engagement customs. Ashara had no intention of doing any such thing, but she saw no reason to discourage the interest.

Then, of course, there was Jon. Northern lords might look unkindly on bastards, but Snow or not, Jon was still a son of Ned Stark, raised at Winterfell and favoured by his father. As her own "generosity" to her husband's bastard son was oft-repeated, lords had begun tentatively to write her asking after Jon's marriage—most for their bastard daughters, but some minor lords for their true-born girls as well.

Despite her frequent appeals to logic and her patent emotional coercion, in all these years Ashara had not been able to convince Ned to write King Robert and legitimise her son. Granted, perhaps she did not try hard enough, but she so hated to see the helpless terror that flashed in Ned's eyes whenever she broached the subject.

Jon's bastard name was no grave hindrance at present—the weight of it on his heart notwithstanding, her poor boy—but in a few years time when they must seriously start seeking out a wife for Jon...Ashara pinched the bridge of her nose. Ned would not even allow rumours to spread of the future he planned for the boy. How would she find the best match for Jon when his father was intent on hiding him away?

She must try again to bring up the subject with Ned. It would inevitably lead to a quarrel, which she hated above all, though it was a well-worn fight by now, and she could not think of any new way to make her appeal. Her husband seemed to lose his good sense whenever the subject arose, and while she could understand his fear, it did not make anything easier.

"My lady?" Ashara looked up from Lady Dustin's latest missive, filled with ghastly rumours about Lord Bolton's bastard son. Ashara had developed a rather strange friendship with the woman since she had arranged for Borsyo to dig up and carry north the bones of Ned's companions in Dorne—one of whom had been Lord Dustin. Barbrey's mix of news and gossip was often as informative as the reports from Ashara's spies.

Maester Luwin was in the open doorway, another scroll in hand, looking very much like a benevolent mouse. She gave him a resigned smile.

"Any more letters and I'll not get to the ledgers until afternoon," she sighed.

"Perhaps you should read this one first, my lady," said the wizened maester, a frown etched into his face as he approached her desk.

"It comes from King's Landing."

Ashara narrowed her eyes at the scroll, sealed in golden wax with the stag of House Baratheon.

"Surely it was not addressed to me."

"No, my lady, to Lord Stark. But given he is gone this morning I thought it best you read it in all haste, in case the king requires an immediate reply."

She tapped the scroll against her palm, considering, then nodded her thanks, broke the wax, and read. Cold fingers reached down her neck, and she sucked in a sharp breath.

Jon Arryn was dead, the parchment read. And the king was coming to Winterfell.

000

" _Amma? Amma_!"

Sometime later, as Ashara was bent over a preliminary preparations list, the unmistakable sound of Elia's voice echoed through the hallways, approaching her solar.

"Slow down, love," she scolded absently as her youngest daughter charged into the chamber, and it took her a few moments to remember that Elia was meant to be with her father. Her head snapped back up.

"Lia! What are you—when did your father—"

"No, _Amma_ , it's just me."

Ashara felt her eyes bulge halfway out of her head.

"Well, Jon and Arya are back by now, too, the snails. Father bid us come back." Her eyes grew bigger, but her daughter only gave her a wide, toothy smile.

"We found your old direwolf! The one I can't remember. Me and Arya!" Here her smile slipped for a heartbeat. "She's hurt and all—no, no not Arya, the wolf—but Farlen thinks there's a chance he could heal her. And she's got five puppies! _Amma_ , they are so cute and I got to hold them and they're all sleepy and soft." The smile was back, and her violet eyes were glittering.

"Father's bringing all of them back to Winterfell so I had to come back fast and tell the men to bring a cart over to the wolf. Father says I had to come tell you after I got the milk for the puppies and I wouldn't be much help to them at the bridge, but now that I've told you, oh, can I please ride back with them? I want to hold the puppies on the ride to Winterfell! They'll be so cold otherwise."

Finally, Elia stopped for breath. For some moments Ashara's head swam, but she was used to Elia's prattling ways.

"Did you say you found the direwolf I brought back ten years ago? And that she is hurt?" Her chest warmed but then clenched with fear. The wolf had been just a young thing, barely past her pup stage, and had needed Ashara as her children did.

"But Farlen says there's a chance he can save her! _Amma_ please, please can I go with the men? Jon and Arya are going back."

"I—uh—" she shook her head to clear it. "Right. No, love, if your father says you'll be in the way then you must stay." Her daughter's face fell dramatically, and Ashara gave her a patient smile.

"I'm rather busy here, and no doubt she has grown since I last saw her. It can be your job to arrange a place where the men might lay her out and tend her wounds. And to ask Yli if she can help the beast."

Elia perked up like a weed after rain, then scrunched up her face.

"She'd never fit in the kennels. She's the size of a pony now." Gods help her, a pony? Ashara had forgotten the great size of the wolf, even at so young an age. Again her chest warmed. In the intervening years, she would sometimes see one of the hunting dogs playing the yard, and in a flash of nostalgia would miss the grey wolf who had stood guard over her in those bitter months Ned was off at war.

"Try the old stables then," she said, trying to settle the rising swirl of hope and fear. "Take a couple of the stable boys with you, and make her a bed with fresh hay. Then make sure to get her plenty of fresh meat from the kitchens. And don't forget to tell Yli. Can I trust you to do this, Elia? Make everything ready for when your father returns with her?"

Elia nodded, eyes bright.

"She'll be the most comfortable direwolf in the North, I promise. Can I get her some old blankets?"

Ashara couldn't help her laugh.

"Yes, you may do what you think is best, but for everyone's sake, I do hope she and her pups are the only direwolves in the North. Well, go on then. I trust you will do this well."

000

Ashara made her way to the godswood when all was settled with the she-wolf and her pups. Farlen had removed the antler without much more blood loss and stitched her wound with help from the maester, and now all they could do was hope Yli's herbs prevented infection and permanent damage to her muscles. That boded well, and in light of the earlier news from King's Landing, not only for the wolf and her own heart.

The she-wolf's size had truly been a shock, but Ashara had recognised those golden eyes and the curious, twitching nose the moment she had stepped into the old stables. The wolf had known her too, licking first her hand, then her face with a tentative tongue. For some time Ashara had sat by her head, stroking her between the ears, trying not to weep. She would live. She had to. All those nights in her cold bed, it had been the wolf who kept her from freezing to her core, and whose fur she had wet with her tears.

Despite Ned's admonitions that they would have to return the pups to the wild once their mother had healed, her children were already in love, feeding them with rags dipped in milk. And who could blame them? They were the sweetest creatures Ashara had ever seen. Even Theon and Sam had ventured to hold and pet them, for all that Theon still kept a healthy distance from their mother.

Poor Theon. At eight, that had been Theon's first memory of Winterfell: a strange, purple-eyed woman standing in the outer bailey, a snarling wolf as tall as he was standing by her side. An image that would have seared itself in any little boy's mind.

She walked through the trees now, her feet needing no guidance. There had always been a strange, foreign sort of peace in the Winterfell godswood. With its watching weirwood and black pool, the place still reminded her that she was not of this cold land, with its snow and forests and whisper of old magic.

Yet she found comfort here somehow, like a shipwrecked sailor washed ashore in a foreign land after years of drifting at sea. It bore no resemblance to the scenes of her childhood, but she was a child no longer, and this place had been her home for nearly half her life.

Ned looked up as she approached the weirwood, though her feet made no sound on the mossy forest floor, and tried for a smile. Ice lay across his lap, so dark it seemed to drink in the light, and he wiped the blade carefully with a cloth dipped in the black pool before him.

She sat down on the rock beside him, feeling the weirwood's eyes on her back, watching the rippling veins on the blade shift in the low afternoon light. Valyrian steel it was, and had not needed sharpening in the four centuries since its forging, much like she had never seen Arthur take a whetstone to Dawn.

Yet Ned had told her the name of the sword was older still—a legacy from the age when magic reigned over the land, and the Starks sat on their thrones of winter with their direwolves at their feet.

"All is well with the direwolf?" asked Ned.

"Yli gave her milk of the poppy, and she should sleep until tomorrow."

"And the children?"

She looked at him from the side of her eye. "They have each named one already. When their mother recovers, I should not wish to witness the children parting with them."

Ned sighed.

"They are direwolves, Ash. They would not stay with humans as dogs do."

"I have been to your crypts, Lord Stark. The mother was with me for more than a year, and she was half-grown then. You saw how she was. And besides. You do not think it telling somehow that there is a male pup for each of our boys, and a female one for each girl? And the way Jon found the last one…the one that looks different from the rest…"

For her children had told how there had only been five pups near their mother, snuggling close and feeding despite her injury. But as they were loading the wolf onto the cart, she had whimpered, and Jon, having heard something on the wind, had strode several yards downstream, and come back holding a sixth pup with red eyes and fur as white as the snow itself.

He turned to look at her, giving her a small smile.

"You are listening too intently to Old Nan's stories, my love. Perhaps my ancestors kept direwolves once, and perhaps they had powers we cannot imagine, but now…they are wolves, and they are wild."

"We shall have to see then. I do not think you put enough stock in these old stories, Ned. They are passed down for a reason. It is true for us Daynes, and it is true for Starks as well."

She had told her children every story she could remember from her childhood—of ancestors who could hear the stars speak; ancestors who commanded the wind and chased a falling star to the ends of the earth; ancestors whose touch turned rock to water and back, and who forged swords from sunlight itself.

Ned did not argue and slid Ice back into its sheath.

"This man was like the others," he said, his voice low, and Ashara knew it was to the man he had executed that he referred. "Terrified half out of his mind. I don't understand how there are suddenly so many such men."

"Has Benjen written at all? Or Commander Mormont?"

"Ben only writes that they do not like their numbers, even with the influx of new recruits these past years. They have lost many on rangings of late."

"Surely they are used to the viciousness of the wildlings."

A humourless smile.

"They have a king now, and if they become truly disciplined and united under this Mance Rayder, I may have to call the banners."

Ashara felt her stomach turn. Her brow knotted, and Ned reached up to smooth it away.

"'Tis is only a distant concern, my love. I do not think it will happen so soon, and I am sure there is nothing to fear from this King-beyond-the-Wall, though Mormont seems convinced there are darker forces at work."

"I know you are dismissive of talk of magic and creatures from legend, but with the direwolf coming so far south again…" she shivered, feeling once more the eyes of the weirwood on her back. "Mormont did not seem to me a man prone to flights of fancy."

Ned gave a short laugh.

"No, that he is not, but just because he believes he has reason to fear does not make him right. Men have always claimed to see dark shadows and the stuff of nightmares. Ben thinks it's nonsense. The man is approaching seventy, and men become superstitious with age. As for the direwolf, perhaps she sensed the coming of winter, and wished to raise her pups south of the Wall."

Ashara chewed on her lip, not fully convinced, but Benjen had always struck her as an intelligent man. Surely he would write if they truly had cause for concern.

"Now, have you come just to keep me company then?" asked Ned, surely knowing her answer.

She shook her head.

"What is it?"

She swallowed, but there was no way to tell him gently.

"I am so sorry, Ned. This came for you from King's Landing today." She held out the parchment. "Jon Arryn has died."

Her words seemed to strike him like a blow, and he fumbled for the letter, pain carving itself into his brow. She slid her arm around him and pulled him into her, kissing his shoulder. The man had been more father to Ned than Lord Rickard was. Though Ashara had met him but twice, she still remembered the way his eyes had twinkled beneath his white brows as he wished her a long life of health and happiness at her wedding all those years ago.

His eyes scanned the parchment, as if hoping he had misheard.

"Fever…taken ill and was gone in a week..." He read under his breath, then looked up.

"I had not heard of Jon being in anything but perfect health. How could this be?"

His voice was desolate, and sounded impossibly young. Ashara bit her lip.

"I am so sorry," she said again. Then,

"I was going to wait a few days to broach the subject. It does seem…rather sudden, does it not? You must ask the king for details when he arrives."

She heard his sharp intake of breath, and his eyes returned to the parchment.

"Robert is coming to Winterfell?"

She could see the grief warring with unexpected joy over his face.

"I have begun preparations—we have a moonturn's time, though I will need to drop our other endeavours and give Sansa the usual running of the castle. There is much to prepare in feasts and entertainments and housing for his party."

"Damnation, ten years and all the man gives is a month's notice before he appears on my doorstep."

"I doubt he intends it to inconvenience you. Not when he would do so another way. There can be no other reason he chooses to come north now."

Ned's eyes narrowed before her meaning dawned on him. His eyebrows shot up.

"You think he would ask me to replace Jon? As Hand? That's madness. He knows I am not made for such things."

"And he would tell you he was not made to be king," she shrugged, remembering the drunk man sprawled in the royal sept, demanding answers from the mute statues. "He will ask this of you. I am certain."

Ned sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose.

"Well, I've got a month to figure out how to refuse him. Have you told Brynden of this? No doubt he'd want to see to his niece." Robert's letter had told of Jon Arryn's widow and son returning to the Eyrie as if fleeing from demons in the night.

"Not yet. You must be the first to know, naturally, but have no doubt Ser Brynden will wish to travel to the Vale."

Some months after she and Ned had arrived at Winterfell and Hoster Tully had begrudgingly sent an infant Robb north, Brynden Tully had ridden alone to the gates of Winterfell and asked—or rather, demanded—to enter Ned's service. It did not take a mastermind to understand why Ser Brynden had come, but the man had certainly found no need to mask his intentions.

"In case your new wife sees fit to orchestrate some accident or illness for my grandnephew," he had told Ned, before a hall full of servants and guards, and Ashara had needed to step in before her husband threw Ser Brynden off the Winterfell walls.

But Brynden Tully was not blind, and it was only months before he realised Ashara was as much in love with Robb as she was with Jon. And when her other children had arrived, they all called him Uncle, and no one saw any reason to correct them. She did wish Hoster Tully shared his brother's goodwill towards his grandson's family, but she had penned him that rather extortive letter more than a decade ago, and if Ser Brynden was any example of Tully stubbornness, Lord Tully would never look kindly upon her.

Ned kissed her hand now as they both rose.

"I will tell him," he said, tucking the king's letter into his double. "You have enough to be getting on with."

Ashara gave him a small smile, but when he made to lead the way back to the castle, she pulled him back, taking in a determined breath.

"Ned."

"Hmm?"

He really saw her face then, and tensed. He might not have the ability to read all her expressions, but this determined one he knew.

"Ash..."

"Ned, when the king arrives, it would be the perfect time to ask him to legitimise Jon. You could even present it as an afterthought. He won't suspect a thing."

His eyes bore into her, his gaze weary, the corners of his mouth strained.

"Just…I'm sorry to bring this up today, but…only, think about it. You will need to do it sometime in the next few years, so why not now?"

Ned closed his eyes, his entire body stiff, and she could almost see the fear-laced memories flashing in his mind. She squeezed his hand, and he sighed.

"Ash, I do not wish to quarrel today." Again, he pressed a kiss into the palm of her hand, then walked soundlessly through the woods and back to the castle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me point out some character ages, as I’ve been rather liberal with my age manipulation:  
> Theon is 18 and became a ward at 8  
> Robb and Jon and Sam are 17  
> Sansa is 16  
> Arya is 15  
> The twins Arthur and Elia are, of course, 12
> 
> The Greyjoy Rebellion happened in 289-290, and Summer started in 290 as well. So, the summer has lasted 10 years at this point.


	16. In the Floating Turret

_One Moon Later_

Jon Snow had always known that he was a bastard. 

Oh, his mother had tried her hardest to shield him from it, he knew, and he understood in his heart of hearts that he was luckier than most. Since he was six years old, he had rarely heard the word ‘bastard’ used around him; he knew his mother had made it so, and why. She and Father treated him no differently than they did his brothers and sisters, and for long stretches of time, Jon could forget that his name was not Stark, but Snow.

Yet on days like these, his bastardy would sneak up behind him and batter him about the head, leaving him with a dark, sinking feeling in his gut. 

The king was due to arrive any day now—Jory has already been dispatched to meet them on the road with an honour guard—and today _Amma_ had pulled him into her solar and placed a hot mug of spiced mead before him. Jon had looked at the steam rising from the golden drink and felt foreboding creep up his back. Spiced mead was his favourite, but _Amma_ always said it was bad for the teeth.

She waited until he had taken a long sip before she spoke, her brow knotted. 

“Jon, as you know, the king is arriving very soon with the queen and much of the royal retinue.”

“Of course.” He took another sip. If she was about to tell him something upsetting, he might as well get the most out of the treat. 

“Right.” A pause. “You may also have heard that the Lannister queen is rather…proud.”

Jon frowned, searching his mind, but he had never paid much attention to some queen who had no bearing on his life. 

“Well, she is,” she said. Another pause. And then,

“Jon, you must know that your father and I love you very much, do you not? That you are our son no matter what your name is?”

“I…of course. You are my mother and father.” 

The foreboding spread like ice. Now her hands were fumbling nervously with the sleeve of her gown. It had been a very long time indeed since either of his parents had brought to the surface this thorn that was always stuck beneath his skin. What in all hells was going on?

“ _Amma_?”

His mother closed her eyes and sighed, and when she opened them again they had a determined glint about them. 

“I only wished to tell you that you will not be sitting by the high table with your brothers and sisters when we are entertaining the king and queen. The queen does not look kindly on children...like you, and we cannot offend her. Do you…do you understand? It is not your fault, and I wish it were not so, but....”

She did not look at him as she spoke, and distantly, Jon knew that it must not be easy for her, this task of informing him. She sounded as if she had rehearsed her words, and she always did that before she was forced to cause upset. 

His head was buzzing, and his face and ears were burning as if with fever. In all the harvest feasts and celebration banquets Father had held at Winterfell, Jon had always sat with his siblings, either at the high table or just beneath it. 

The mean, logical voice in his head reminded him that he had always known it was not the done thing anywhere else—he had caused many a shocked look and whisper behind a hand during the banquets of his childhood—but his parents had always acted like it was where he belonged, and he had come to expect it. Stupid, stupid. He should not be surprised now. Father ruled the North, but he owed fealty to the king. It would not do to cause offence by parading a bastard before the queen. 

Now he swallowed. He could not look up at _Amma_ either. He only stared into the steam still rising from the mug before him and tried not to cry, because to his abject horror he could feel tears pricking his eyes. 

_You are seventeen,_ he tried to scold himself. _Stop being a child and embarrassing yourself. It’s only a banquet, and you didn’t even care about the queen a moment ago._

 _“_ Jon?” He took a breath and forced his eyes up. She must have seen something terrible in his face, for she looked as if someone had just struck her hard across the cheek. Now a generous helping of guilt mixed with the swamp of humiliation and anger pooling in his stomach. 

He looked away again, because if he had to look at his mother’s pained expression for another moment more, he really would cry. 

“I understand,” he mumbled at the table, and before she could come to him he had fled the room. Again she called after him, her desolate voice bouncing off the walls, but he pretended not to hear. 

000

He had been six years old the first and only time he had asked his mother about his bastardy. He and his siblings had been playing in one of their chambers in the evening when Sansa, suddenly hungry, had asked if they could sneak extra lemon cakes from the kitchens. Arya immediately volunteered herself, but they all agreed that she was not quiet enough. Jon, having then lost a round of Boulder-Leather-Sword to Robb, had been the one to creep down to the kitchens. 

Two of the scullery maids were working to scrub the floors, and Jon had pressed his back into the shadows, listening to them moon over one of the stable hands, waiting for them to leave.

Their conversation had bored him, and he had nearly dozed off when the word ‘bastard’ had caught his ear. Jon knew that was what he was—he was not sure how he’d known, but he did—and though he was not entirely certain what it meant, he knew it was nothing good. Bastards were supposed to be liars, wicked and slovenly, and Jon didn’t want to be any of that, so he never asked his mother or his father about the word. If they didn’t explain it to his face, he could at least pretend it was not true. 

“Should have known it was foolish to trust a bastard,” the one who sounded like a bird was saying. “The man took Pa’s coin and never came back. Should have known Snows are as crooked as they say.”

“Well, not all,” said the one with the nasally voice. “The helper in the butcher’s shop always gave us fried pork skin when he thought no one was looking, remember?”

“I s’pose, but that were stealing from the butcher, weren’t it?”

“You didn’t think it were stealing when you took the skin.”

“Oh, shut your mouth.”

“I will not. I don’t buy the talk about bastards bein’ bad folk. Not all. And Lord Stark’s bastard seems a fine sort.”

Jon gasped, then pressed a hand over his mouth, praying they hadn’t heard him. 

“He’s only six. How’d you know what sorta man he’ll be?” said the bird-like girl, undisturbed. “And besides, he’s always dour-like. Lord Robb is a much sweeter child.”

“No,” said the nasally-voiced girl. “No, Lord Jon’s sweet too. I saw him put a baby sparrow back in a tree once.”

He remembered the bird from some moons ago. It had fallen from a low branch, and was miraculously still alive. He had scooped it up, placed it in his collar, and climbed the little tree, proud of his newly acquired skills. Jon didn’t know what became of the bird—he hadn’t thought of it since. He hoped now that it had survived. 

“Hmm,” said the other. “Mayhaps you’re right, but do you know what they say?”

“What?”

“Well, I’ve heard that maybe Lord Jon isn’t a bastard after all. Or, not meant to be.”

“How’d you make that out?”

He could hear the smile in the girl’s voice as she spoke, relishing in her gossip. 

“Some of the women working in the laundry say Lord Jon’s actually Lady Stark’s boy.”

The nasally girl gasped, though Jon did not think he understood.

“No way in all hells!”

“They say he’s Lady Stark’s natural son, born before she married Lord Stark in King’s Landing. She would have been grievin’ her brother’s death when Lord Stark went to return the famous sword. You know how these things happen.”

“But Lord Stark was the one what killed her brother.”

“Lady Stark don’t seem too angry about that now, does she?. It was war. I bet her brother was trying to kill Lord Stark too.”

“I guess so. You won’t believe the things I’ve heard in the mornings when I’m lighting the fires on their floor.”

Both girls giggled, though Jon didn’t understand what was so funny. He didn’t understand anything at all, it seemed. His head felt like a slug dragging itself through its slime. 

“Anyhow, they would have asked that Jon be legitimised, but Lord Robb’s grandda is the lord of the Riverlands, and he’d be eggy ‘bout it, because the two little lords are so close in age.”

The air in the darkened hallway seemed suddenly damp and heavy, and Jon found that breathing hurt his chest.

“So this Riverlands lord thinks Lady Stark would want her own son to be the heir to Winterfell if he were legitimate? 

“Makes sense, don’t it? And Jon’s got her colouring and everything, and she treats him like one of her own babes. Janey’s stepma married her pa when she was a babe, too, and the woman beats her all the time.”

“Nah, Lady Stark wouldn’t beat no one. Heart’s too soft for that. And she treats Lord Robb no different neither. Lord Robb most certainly isn’t hers.”

“Still, I buy it. Half our food comes from the Riverlands this winter, don’t you know? Lord Stark would want to keep them happy. Besides, you really buy that story about Lord Jon’s ma being a fisherman’s daughter?”

The nasally-voiced girl scoffed. 

“More than your long-nosed tale. Who’d let their son be a bastard if they can help it?”

“Don’t you know anything? Lady Stark’s from Dorne, you daft cow. In Dorne, they don’t care if someone’s a bastard.”

He had forgotten all about Sansa’s lemon cakes. 

Jon did not remember how he had left the kitchen, but the next thing he knew, he was racing up the Great Keep to his parents’ chambers. 

The whole way there, the mean little voice in his head told Jon to stop being stupid, forcibly reminding him of his mother’s words. 

“You call me _Amma_ , and I love you with all my heart, Jon. But you must not forget that your mother gave her life to bring you into the world, do you understand?” 

She had said the same to Robb, and surely she would not have lied, though while she talked of a Lady Catelyn with red hair and blue eyes, _Amma_ never told Jon the name of the woman who had given birth to him. 

But the kitchen girl’s words had sparked a little light in him that would not die. What if what she said was true? She was right, he did have _Amma’_ s dark hair, and even his eyes could look very dark purple if he saw them reflected just the right way. 

And what if the reason _Amma_ never told him his mother’s name was because she had given birth to him all along? Maybe she told him these things so Robb would not feel left out. His brother always grew sulky when he was reminded that he looked like no one else in the family. 

What if he wasn’t a bastard after all, Jon thought, a giddy rush passing over him. Then all those bad things that bastards were meant to be wouldn’t have anything to do with him. He didn’t want to be a liar, or wicked, or a sloven. Maybe, just maybe…

He would not even be angry if _Amma_ lied to him about this. He would even keep up the ruse if it made Robb feel he wasn’t alone. Jon just wanted to hear her tell him that he was not a bastard, not truly. 

He had found _Amma_ in the nursery, rocking the twins’ cradle with her foot while she read. She looked up when he sped in, a confused smile on her mouth. 

“Everything alright, love? I thought you were with the others in Sansa’s room.”

Suddenly, Jon could not speak. A huge lump had formed in the back of his throat, and it hurt to swallow. _Amma_ frowned, coming to crouch before him, holding his hands in her very warm ones. 

“What’s wrong, Jon? Did you have a fight—”

“Is it true I’m not really a bastard?” The words had shot out of his mouth like an accidental arrow, clumsy and wild. They seemed to strike her dumb for a moment, and she only blinked at him. 

“What did you say?” she finally asked, her voice very low. 

“Is it true you were the one who really gave birth to me, but you can’t make me not a bastard because Robb’s grandfather won’t let you?”

“Where...Jon, how do you even...”

“I know Father can’t upset him. You don’t have to make me not a bastard. Just...tell me, _Amma,_ please. They say bastards are all liars and wicked and slovenly, and I don’t want to be! I’m not a bastard, right? I’m not those bad things?” 

He tried not to cry, he did, but the tears came anyway, burning his skin as they rolled over his cheek. Angrily, he dashed them away with his sleeve.

“Oh, my sweet child, of course you are none of those things!” Her hand was smoothing away his tears now. “You must never believe that!”

She pulled him into her arms and held him so tightly that for a moment all felt and good and right. _Amma_ was very warm, sweet-smelling and familiar, but her next words made him cold once more. 

“Jon, you are my son, love, but I did not lie to you. The woman who was your mother is with the gods now. I’m sorry, my darling. I am so very sorry.” 

He should have known it was too good to be true. He should have known. Stupid, stupid Jon. 

She had still held him when she spoke, but now she pulled back to look at him, and suddenly Jon didn’t care so much about her words or his being a bastard. What he saw terrified him. There were tears on her face, and her red-rimmed eyes were shiny as the gem on the bracelet Uncle Oberyn had sent Sansa for her name day. 

Jon shook his head, but it felt like someone else was doing it for him. No, _Amma_ didn’t cry. His parents weren’t supposed to cry. What had he done? 

He barely remembered the words that came next. He thought she had asked him how he had heard such a thing, and perhaps she had assured him that all those things people said of bastards were cruel nonsense, that he mustn’t pay them any mind. It didn’t matter. All Jon could see—all that played in his mind—was that he had made his mother cry. 

Later that night, when he was tired of tossing in his bed, he slipped from his chambers to that of his parents at the end of the hall. Father had given him and Robb stern words about being grown-up now and never sneaking into their chambers at night, but Jon wouldn’t sneak. He would knock. 

Yet when he came to their doors and tried to knock, he realised that they would not hear him. Voices came from inside—loud, like shouting—but they were so muffled that he could not make out a single word. His parents had a large floating turret room accessible only from their chambers, and it served as _Amma’_ s personal library. It was two stories high, it’s walls lined with tapestries and books. When you were in there, it was as if the world outside those walls dropped away, for all was silent save for the occasional passing raven. 

They must be in there, Jon thought, pressing his ear into the barred door. He recognised his father’s voice, booming and low, and over it came his mother’s, sharp and angry. They were fighting, he realised, though he had never heard them fight before. 

He and Robb fought. Sometimes, Arya would pull Sansa’s hair, and they would fight, Arya making up words to hurl when she could not think of the right ones. But his mother and father—they never fought. They were best friends, and they always liked each other. They never fought. 

_But they’re fighting now. You made Amma cry today. Now you’ve made them yell at each other._

They were fighting about him. They had to be. Jon knew it in his gut, and the knowledge hit him like a blow, making him double over. 

His fault, his fault. Perhaps he was wicked after all, though he always tried desperately not to be. He had made his mother cry. And now he had made his parents fight. _Amma_ loved him—she said so—but he was just a bastard. When would she decide he was not worth the trouble of loving? 

000

Jon had spent the morning riding alone in the woods around Winterfell. When he came back, he made three japes in a row about Robb being a “carrot-knob” until he had goaded his brother into a fight in the practice yard. 

It was unkind of him, Jon knew, and the actions of a sulking boy. Robb has always been painfully aware that he looked as if he did not belong in their family, with his flaming hair and Tully blue eyes. Sometimes Jon even felt badly for his brother, for though a bastard, at least his own dark hair and grey eyes looked like Father’s. 

But Jon had been angry, and had known just how to goad his brother into a fight. Robb had managed to slug him hard in the shoulder, and the pain of it had been cleansing. 

“What’d you go and say that for, Jon? What’s wrong with you?” His brother had asked as they both sprawled in the yard afterwards, panting and sore. 

“Nothing,” Jon lied, even knowing Robb would see him at the far table with the young squires when the king came, and realise exactly what was wrong with him now. “Just keeping you on your toes.”

“Others take you,” Robb winced as he rose. “I hope your shoulder throbs all week.” But he had seen Jon’s face, and decided not to pry. 

Later, they had been heading to change clothes when they found their sisters sitting on the floor before their parents’ chambers as angry voices floated out into the hall. Sansa was holding her sleeping wolf pup—she had named her Lemons, much to everybody’s bewildered amusement—while she watched Nymeria wrestle with Mouse. Arya and Lia both had their ears on the door. 

“What do you think they’re fighting about?” whispered Elia, eyes wide, her face slightly squashed from pressing against the wood. 

“ _Shh,”_ Arya hissed, her face similarly distorted. “I thought I caught a word just now!”

“Are we camping out here?” called Robb. “What’s happening?” He came to a jolting stop when he heard the shouting. 

“ _Shhhhhhh!”_ That came from both Lia and Arya, and Sansa frowned up at them. 

“Mother and Father have been yelling at each other for an hour now. They’re in _Amma’_ s library though, so we can’t hear a single word.” Her eyes grew wide, and she clutched Lem closer into her. 

“I’ve never heard them shouting so.” 

Robb had his ear against the door now, too, but Jon could hear their raised, angry voices just fine from where he stood. Something seemed to smash against a wall, and all five of them flinched. 

Jon felt frozen to the floor, and wished for a moment that it would open and swallow him, so that he melted into the Winterfell walls. 

“Do you think it’s about the king?” whispered Arya. “He is coming soon. Maybe _Amma_ doesn’t want him here.”

“It isn’t Father’s fault the king’s coming,” said Robb. “And news of the king came a moonturn ago. Why’d they fight about that now?” 

Arya shrugged. 

“I think...I heard the word ‘Dawn’ just now,” said Lia, eyes narrowing. Arya gasped. 

“Do you think something reminded _Amma_ of her brother? Maybe that’s why she’s angry.”

“Is that really true, about how Ser Arthur was killed?” Sansa asked quietly. “I always hear talk that Father killed _Amma’_ s brother, but that can’t be right, surely.”

Arya rolled her eyes. 

“Of course it is. Father won’t tell us anything because he doesn’t want to upset our mother. But the old soldiers talk of it all the time.” 

Sansa looked unconvinced, but Jon did not speak up to correct any of them. His parents were not fighting about Ser Arthur Dayne. Lia had not heard ‘Dawn.’ He could still remember the pained way his mother had looked at him in her solar that morning, and suddenly, her tear-stained face from all those years ago flashed in his mind. He had never seen her tears ever again. 

They were fighting about him now—he was certain of it. The word his sister heard had most probably been ‘Jon.’ The last time their shouts had carried into the hall thus, he had been six, intent on sneaking into the chamber because he could not sleep. He had made them fight then, and he must be the reason now. They never fought over anything else. 

It had been a great many years since Jon had entertained the possibility that his mother would no longer love him. That was not how love worked—not for parents and their children, anyway. It had been a ridiculous, childish notion—he was her son, and it hardly mattered that she had not given birth to him. And yet, he could not halt the sinking feeling opening up in his gut, threatening to pull him into its black depths. 

What good was he, if all he ever did was make his family unhappy? No doubt they loved him, but they could not help it. His parents were his parents. They had to love him. But it did not mean that he deserved it. 

**O~O~O~O~O**

Even the moon hid its face from Ned tonight as he paced the parapets of the Great Keep, his mind a jumble of tangled wires. He had come out here in no more than his doublet, hoping the late chill would calm the restless gnawing that had been impossible to put out since he had quarrelled with his wife this day. 

Ashara had cornered him in their chamber after midday, her eyes blazing, and shut them into her library turret, where they could not be overheard. She had told him of her talk with Jon that morning, and insisted again that he use this visit from Robert to ask for Jon’s legitimisation. 

This was a well-worn quarrel between them—the only one that remained resolutely unresolved all these years—and though his mind knew her reasons and arguments held sense, he could not help the dread that bit at him every time he imagined Robert sitting up in realisation of the truth, sending armed men to turn his son into a bloody mess on the marble floor. 

Perhaps nothing would come of drawing attention to his “bastard son” by asking Robert to legitimise him. But it was not a common thing for a lord, especially when he had legitimate heirs, and Ned could simply not stomach the risk, not even to ease Jon’s heart. To grow up under the burden of bastardy was better than being murdered before he had a chance to grow up at all, and Ned had stubbornly insisted that the way things were was best. The rumours and mystery and their guarded tongues kept Jon safe. 

Yet today, she had not come to him armed with her usual arguments of the mind and heart, but instead hurled accusations at him from the start, her voice so fierce he thought the windows might break. His wife had always known just what to say to make anyone feel at ease. She could charm even the likes of Brynden Tully and Rickard Karstark, and he should have known by now that her tongue could just as easily cut like snowy wind. Yet her accusations of heartlessness and cruelty had still struck him dumb.

“You say it is for love, to keep Jon safe, but I say you are being a fucking coward, Ned Stark! You cannot see past your own damn irrational fears, and you would make Jon suffer for them!”

Finally, he had felt his own frustrations flair, and bellowed right back, though now he could barely recall all the words they exchanged. There had only been one other time she had come to him like this, as if she wore her bleeding heart on her sleeve, and it had scared him then as it scared him now.

They had been married six years when Ashara had pulled him into the turret tower late at night, her eyes glittering in the moonlight. 

“You must ask the king to legitimise Jon,” she had said, almost pleading. “Please, Ned, you _must._ I will not have him grow up thinking he is somehow wicked and unwanted from no fault of his.”

She had told him of the incredible rumours she had uncovered after Jon came to her that evening, but when he had shaken his head at her request—for it was courting danger, to bring Robert’s notice on Jon thus—she had raged at him as she’d never done in the near decade he had known her.

Ned had done his best to assure her they would not let Jon be harmed by this—that they could dismiss the servants who talked such rumours, and treat him the same, just as they’d always done—but she had been inconsolable.

“It will raise eyebrows all over the kingdoms!” he had tried to reason. “We Starks have never asked the king of such a thing, not when the lord had legitimate heirs.”

She had not wished to hear him, and Ned had spent the night sleeping in his solar. 

The next day, she had disappeared into the storerooms where the maesters always kept old parchments and records, and it was not until she emerged in the evening with a grim determination on her face that he had found the chance to speak with her. 

“Perhaps you were right about your Stark history. I couldn’t find documents asking the king to legitimise a bastard son unless it was for want of an heir. But this is not over, Ned Stark. I simply cannot stomach being angry with you anymore.”

And she was as good as her word. Over the years, she had come to him with various arguments and appeals, and he had conceded by inches, rebuilding Moat Cailin and promising that one day, when Jon was to wed and take the new castle as lord, he would write to Robert and ask that Jon be called Stark. It would not make Robert suspicious, perhaps, if there was a real reason behind the asking. And he hoped that when the time finally came, enough years would have passed that Robert would not even remember Jon’s age. 

Ned had thought that they had finally resolved their quarrel, but this afternoon… 

When he thought their fight could not possibly grow any fiercer without the walls collapsing around them, Ashara had hurled a pitcher at the wall—though perhaps he should be thankful it had not been aimed at him—and then, to his horror, she had burst into tears. His own anger had evaporated like smoke in the night. Never in all their years together had Ned made her weep, but then, he had never shouted at her so. 

“Ash? No, please don’t—I’m sorry I shouted at you, I shouldn’t have—”

“No, damn you,” she gasped between sobs, pressing her face into his chest and pounding on his shoulder. “It’s not that, you dolt. If you’d only seen the look on Jon’s face today...Damn you Ned Stark—the hurt you’ve put on my poor son.” 

He had left her sleeping on a tufted chair in the turret tower, exhausted from their fight, and slipped from their chambers to go for a ride and clear his head. As he had opened their chamber door, he could hear unmistakeable footsteps echoing down the hall, and Ned had pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no danger that his children had heard any words, but their shouts had certainly spread into the hall.

Now he stood before his chamber door once more, the cold of the night having done nothing to calm his fraying nerves. Tentatively, he knocked, hoping she would at least let him in so they could speak. 

She came to the door so quickly it was as if she had been standing just on the other side, and he was pleased to see that her eyes were no longer rimmed with red.

“I should not have lost my temper so,” she said finally, when he had lowered himself onto their bed and she sat with her back to him, her legs crossed. “It was rather unseemly,, and I’m sorry for the things I said. I didn’t mean them. You are not…you could never be—”

“They’re already forgotten,” he interrupted her, though in a dark corner of his mind, her words about his cowardice did not seem so misplaced. The fear overtook him like some demon any time his mind wandered to what Tywin Lannister had done to those Targaryen children. 

“I should not have shouted back at you.”

“And the pitcher,” she said. “I was not aiming to hit you, I promise.”

He offered a dry laugh.

“That I know. You would not have missed.”

He heard her weak laugh, and then they lapsed into silence once more.

“You understand why I cannot ask Robert now, don’t you?” he finally asked, hoping he would not incite her anger again.

“You say that he will ask to see Jon, and you fear he will recognise his mother in him,” she said softly. “But all anyone sees when they look at Jon is your face, Ned. Surely you know that.”

“Nonetheless. There is the possibility he would see something else, especially with Arya next to him. I cannot risk it.”

She sighed, a deep sigh, weary to the bone. 

“When the king leaves, then. Before his next name day, at the latest. Construction on Moat Cailin is nearly finished now. You must at least take Jon to see it, and tell him it will be his. Promise.”

“Very well. I promise.” he said, for Jon would be eight and ten in the coming year. Ned was running out excuses to draw out this stagnant state of affairs. 

And his promise to Lyanna…“When he comes of age,” she had said. “Tell him of his father when he comes of age.” He had waited too long as it was, but he could not bear the thought of telling Jon that he, Ned, was not in fact his father. At least in this Ashara had not pressed him often--only once on the day after Jon turned sixteen. He had stared at her, not knowing what to say, and she had sighed, kissed his hand and left him alone with his ghosts. 

“I promise,” he said again, and she turned to him, resting her chin on his shoulder. He closed his eyes briefly, drinking in her warm scent and soft hand on his back, for the world beyond her was cold and empty and harsh. 

“And you might tell your plans about Moat Cailin to some of the guards and trading men in passing. Allow the rumours to spread. In a few years time, I won’t have Jon’s marriage prospects diminished because his father was too stubborn to set aside his unreasonable reservations.”

Hells, but the truth stung coming from her mouth. 

He nodded his agreement, heaving his own exhausted sigh, and they fell back onto the mattress together, holding each other and watching as the shadows flickered on the canopy overhead. 

“I love you, Ned Stark,” he thought he heard her murmur just before he dozed off to sleep. “You are infuriating and unreasonable, but I cannot help myself.”  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, writing a lot of this felt like actual child abuse. Very unpleasant. Not sure I will ever attempt again.


	17. Buried Treasure

Stupid Lia and her stupid treasure. 

As they raced through the halls towards the maester’s turret, Arthur could not help glaring daggers at his sister. Lia, dark curls wild from their climb and the wind atop the broken tower, gave him an impish grin, not at all sorry that she had made them late for lessons. 

“Others take you, Lia. Now Maester Luwin’s going to make me copy out timber yields again.”

“If you’d just memorise them for when he tests you, he’d have no reason to make you copy out the boring stuff,” she replied airily, and Arthur scowled.

“Not everyone can have a freak memory like yours,” he muttered. Lia could remember writing at a glance, and she did not even like to read. None of it was fair. His own memory served well enough, but only for the interesting things, like history and politics and the different ways smallfolk lived their lives depending on if they fished or farmed or grew grapes for a living. Arthur did not have a mind for numbers, and of late, having to memorise how many board feet of oak or soldier pine the North exported to each of the Free Cities each year was making Arthur’s head all jumbled. 

Lia shrugged. 

“My freak memory and I will get to leave lessons early as usual.”

Arthur resumed his glaring. His sister had come to him after the midday meal today, intent on showing him something she’d found buried in the ruined rooms at the top of the broken tower. She had been up there alone the day before, while the rest of them had been at lessons, memorising numbers. Another thing that was not fair—how much more time Lia had for climbing. 

“I swear on my life that it’s lost treasure,” she had said. “It’s all golden and shiny and has ancient symbols carved on it. Come and see if you can get it out for me.” 

Arthur, unable to staunch his curiosity, had strapped small shovels to their backs and climbed to the tower with her, even knowing they only had an hourglass turn’s time before lessons began. They had left their pups Dawn and Mouse with their mother and littermates—the mother wolf was well enough to stand on her own for short bursts of time now—though Arthur wondered when, if ever, it would be safe to bring their pups climbing with them. 

Since before he could remember, he and Lia had explored every foot of Winterfell’s walls and turrets, their shoes tied up with string and slung over their necks, their fingers and toes digging into the chalky crevices between stones. They found passages inside walls and hidden bridges between towers, often emerging atop turrets entirely on the other side of where they had started. 

Sometimes they would veer off on different routes, picking a point to meet up at, and other times Arthur would climb alone, a book tucked safely in his doublet, and read for hours where no one could disturb him. 

Yet most often, they climbed together. Though by now everyone knew they climbed, it still felt like their secret. 

Because Arthur was better, he often went first, and when he emerged alone somewhere impossibly high, for a few moments, he would breathe the crisp, sweet air, silence filling his ears, feeling like he could see through the eyes of the birds that glided overhead. 

Then, in a few moments, he would turn to help Lia up, her laughter dancing on the air around them, and Arthur would think there was nobody in the world so wonderful as his sister. When they looked out over the walls and the rolling hills beyond, just the two of them, like two sides of a single coin, nothing could ever go amiss in the world. 

Climbing was one of the only things in which he could beat Lia, though they had only raced each other up towers and along old runs of machicolations half the time, and not nearly so often now that they were getting older. More often now, they simply perched atop walls and turrets and watched the daily life of Winterfell play out below them—the cooks in the glass gardens, the soldiers drilling in the yard— and it made Arthur feel like they were lord of the castle, in a way even Robb would never know.

Lia had different ideas, for her mind could never still, and anything it churned up would eventually make its way out her mouth. As they watched the people go about their day, she contrived to make up the things they seemed to be saying to each other, sometimes concocting conversations so ludicrous their sheer nonsense made Arthur laugh until his belly ached. 

“Oh, those two by the washing well are definitely talking about the wart on the undercook’s nose,” she’d say, squinting, then continuing in a falsetto, 

“‘She came so close to me this morning, I could count the hairs on it,’ the blonde one is saying. Oh, no, see, the redhead looks scared. Wait. She’s flapping her hands, what on earth? Oh, I know! ‘Watch your tongue,’ the redhead’s saying, ‘I don’t care about warts. The undercook’s got ears like a bat’s.’” 

Once, when they had been six, Lia had insisted they compete to see who could hang upside down longest from the gaps in the machicolations. And so, they had been hanging there, letting the blood rush to their faces, when their mother happened to walk past. Lia had not been able to help giggling, making _Amma_ look up. She had nearly fainted. 

“Are you sure the two of you are children and not squirrels?” she had asked when she’d made them come down, intently watching their practiced movements on the walls. She had asked them if they could find some other form of entertainment, one that would not risk her heart giving out every time she saw them, but Lia had simply shrugged and said,

“Or we could just keep climbing and make sure you never see us.” 

Her eyes had gone wide. 

“If you fall, you will have no sympathy from me, Elia Stark,” she’d said, though Arthur knew she did not mean it and was struggling not to smile. 

She had made them promise before the weirwood tree that they would never do anything that felt dangerous or risky when up in the air, then made as if to leave them be. Over the next months, however, Old Nan, Maester Luwin, and Wylla had all used various methods to convince them of the dangers of climbing. All to no avail—for none were a match for Lia’s infuriating tongue. Their mother has even recruited Septa Dyna, though Arthur was not certain why she thought either of them would listen to the unsmiling woman. _Amma_ ’s own eyes would glaze over when the septa spoke about holy days and the joys of prayer. 

Arthur had been feeling guilty about putting their mother through so much worry when the last person she recruited had set their minds at ease. 

“Your _Amma’s_ asked me to convince you to stop climbing,” Yli had said one day when Arthur and Elia came to help her dry herbs. “The utter shamelessness of the girl. As if she did not ride alone into the Red Mountains or set out into the open sea on a piece of wood and make us all fear she would die. You Starks may be wolves, but the two of you have got the luck of cats. Just be sure to land on your feet, and you’ll be right as rain.” 

The next morning Lia had repeated Yli’s words to their mother, and after that, no one ever questioned their climbing. Arthur wasn’t sure why _Amma_ had ever been worried. Not once had either of them fallen.

Up on the broken tower that morning, Lia had shown him the golden knob buried deep in the compact rubble of the collapsed rooms. It was bronzed with age, and there were symbols Arthur had never before seen etched on the cold metal. The exposed bit was a half circle perhaps the size of his palm, and there seemed to be a hole in the middle, but that was mostly filled with caked dust and debris. 

Centuries of rain and snow had made the mixture of pulverised ruins hard as the ground itself, and no matter how they chipped at the debris, they could only scrape bits of dust from its surface, and had no luck in exposing more of it, let alone pulling it out completely. 

“What do you think it is,” Lia had asked, picking at it absently with her nail when they had decided to give up on the shovels. 

“No idea,” sighed Arthur, his shoulders beginning to ache from the shovelling. “Can’t even tell how big it is.”

Lia sat back against a piece of building rock, absently swatting away an audacious crow that had flown too close to her head.

“We’ll have to come back, then. With chisels next time, and maybe some water to loosen the dirt.”

“You want to carry water up here? I’m certainly not going to do it.”

She pouted at him.

“But you’re the boy. Aren’t you’re supposed to be all…strong and stuff?”

Arthur gaped at her.

“You’re joking, right? What was it you said when I asked you to mend my favourite shirt the other day?”

She blushed. 

“Well, no one is born knowing how to do needlework,” she said stubbornly, “but boys are naturally stronger than girls. You don’t need to learn anything for it, you just are.”

Arthur rolled his eyes at her.

“Oh, come _on,_ Art, I don’t believe for an instant that you’re not just as curious about the thing as I am. Imagine Maester Luwin’s face if we present him with some thousand-year-old lost treasure.”

And that was when they had both sat up as if stung. They had no hourglass with them, but it was clear just by the sun that they were terribly late for lessons. They had eschewed climbing down through the godswood, instead leaving their shovels atop the tower, carefully descending onto the First Keep and dropping to the ground from the back. 

By the time they had reached the maester’s turret, both were out of breath. 

“Don’t tell anyone about this,” Lia whispered as they mounted the steps to the chamber where Maester Luwin held lessons. “If anyone’s going to dig it out, I want it to be us.”

“Fine,” said Arthur, rolling his eyes again, though if he were honest with himself, when he got over the annoyance with his sister, he too would be burning to know what on earth the golden knob buried in the ruins was.

Thankfully, Maester Luwin seemed in a forgiving mood today, and only set Arthur and Elia onto writing out a comprehensive account of trade relations with each of the Free Cities and those in Slaver’s Bay, gleaned from the records of the past few decades. It was not so monotonous, most of the records were new—some written in his mother or father’s hand back when Arthur was just a babe in arms—and Arthur found the entire bit of history fascinating. 

According to the maester, the North did not always trade so with Essos. There had long been limited exports of sentinel and pine to Braavos for their ships, but since his mother had arrived in the North, she had brokered many exclusive agreements through connections in Braavos and Norvos, and even as far south as Lys. 

The elites of the Free Cities now prized Northern oak for their front doors and lightweight ironwood for furniture and weaponry. When it grew cold in the nights in Pentos and Myr, it was Northern furs the wealthy women wore around their shoulders. And of course, now nearly all merchants and city fleets alike built their ships with Northern wood. Most had not known before that trees could grow so large, and the wood itself could hold up so strong, but now they would not source their wood from elsewhere.

His mother had discovered, too, that the snow marble mined around the low mountains north of the Wolfswood could be exported to the Slave Cities. 

Nobody in Westeros had ever wished to build with the silver-veined stone, for it heated slowly and cooled far too fast, and spending winter in a castle laid with snow marble floors would be a miserable affair indeed. Even the Dornish did not wish to build with the stuff, for winter nights in the desert could be cold enough to freeze off ears and toes. 

The only reason the mines were still open at all was because lords in the south liked to line the walls of their ice cellars with the marble, and perhaps serve cold summer sweets in a few cold bowls. 

But _Amma_ , ever the voracious reader, had found travel accounts of Slaver’s Bay written a century ago. Inside were passages in which Ghiscari graces of old praised white and silver stone, claiming such marble was made from the dust fallen from the palaces where lived the gods of Ghis. 

The Northern mines had been expanded like never before these last fifteen years, and it was said that the Temple of the Graces in Meereen was now lined completely in snow marble. So, too, were the fighting pits—for the blood spilled to please the Ghiscari gods was more vivid than ever on white stone—but when Arthur had asked his mother about this with a frown, she had only pursed her lips. 

“We do the best for the people we can help,” she had told him. “I am not a god, only a woman, and your father only a man. There are always cruelties and injustices in the world, and we can do no more than try to make life in the North a little better for our people without directly causing harm elsewhere. Do you understand?”

Arthur thought he did. Still, the idea of spilling human blood for sport made his head spin with nausea. 

An hour into lessons, Maester Luwin was called to Father’s solar. As soon as he was out the door, Theon leaned back in his chair and propped his feet up on the table, tossing aside his quill and shaking out his hand. He had been writing an account of the Gardener kings during and after the Andal invasions, and his dazed expression made it clear just how much attention he had been paying to his work. 

“Seven hells, why was every Gardener king called Garth? And what kind of name is that? No wonder my ancestors always reft their shores. Rich men named Garth are just asking to be relieved of their coin.”

Robb laughed, the sound filling the room, and beside him, Arya choked on her water. Everyone else was smiling too, but Sam looked up from his own parchment, twirling his quill at Theon with an earnest look in his eye.

“They were all named after Garth the Gardener, the first mythical king from the Age of the Heroes. I imagine Garth is a name from the language they spoke way back in the day. Many houses do this, of course. Cycle through a short list of names, at least for the boys, I mean. There have been more Brandon Starks than most people can recall, for example, and it’s the same thing with House Greyjoy, Theon. If I remember correctly, there was a Theon III during—oof, hey!”

Theon had thrown a cushion at Sam's face, then opened his mouth to speak, but seemed to stop himself. He rolled his eyes instead.

"You don't always need to remind us you're the smartest one here, Tarly. Say any more, and I might be tempted to make you write the rest of this for me."

Sam’s face went pink. 

“I’m not smarter. I just read more.”

Sansa looked up from the castle ledgers. She was in charge of Winterfell’s regular activities this month, and had less a mind for numbers than Arthur did, meaning she carried the ledgers everywhere, trying to keep up. 

“We all read, Sam,” she said. “But only you can remember all these interesting details and pull them out at the most relevant moments. You mustn’t belittle what you can do. You’ve got an incredible mind.” She beamed at him, her cheeks dimpling, and Sam turned the colour of boiled shrimp. 

Robb and Jon shared a sly grin over the table, and Arthur saw Arya and Theon roll their eyes at the same time, while beside him, Lia tried to choke down her laughter. Sam turned redder still. Arthur thought that, had Sansa smiled so at anyone else, Jon and Robb would likely drag him out of bed in the middle of the night and invite him to a long chat in the practice yard. But Sam was—well, Sam. Harmless. And Sansa was only smiling. 

Arya heaved a great huff through her nose and leaned back in her chair as well, her feet on the table, and stretched like a cat. 

“Why’d we need to have lessons today anyway? You’d think Maester Luwin’s got enough to worry about with three hundred of the king’s men coming to stay any day now.”

“Arya, put your feet down,” frowned Sansa, tapping Arya’s leg with her quill.

“Why?” She swung her legs so that her feet were on Sansa’s stack of notes and lists. “Am I bothering you?” Arya raised a dark eyebrow, and it was Jon’s turn to choke on his water. Sansa’s eyes widened. 

“Arya—”

“How tall is the imp, anyway?” Lia cut in, her eyes shiny. “And who do you think is taller, him or Arya—sorry, sorry! But you are the shortest one here!” Arya had hopped off her chair in a flash and come to prod Lia’s ticklish side, but Lia was faster, dashing away so that Arya was made to chase her around the classroom. 

Robb laughed again, while Theon watched the exchange with a glint in his eye. 

“Careful, little sister,” said Robb. “Don’t let _Amma_ catch you calling him that.” Their mother had insisted they be courteous, and refer to the Lannister dwarf only as Lord Tyrion, but so far, only Sansa had complied. 

“I don’t see why not,” panted Lia when she’d finally gotten Arya off her. “That’s what he is, isn’t it? I hardly think we’d be the first to call him that.”

“That isn’t the point, Elia,” said Sansa, dusting off the papers where Arya’s feet had been. She was the only one aside from their parents who even tried to remember that Lia’s real name was Elia. Father never used the nickname, and _Amma_ had tried over the years to stop the rest of them from using it too, but nicknames were stickier than overcooked caramel. Arthur didn’t particularly enjoy being called Art, either, but there was nothing to be done. He knew that everybody calling out ‘Lia’ all the time reminded Father of his dead aunt Lyanna, but Lia had always been Lia to him, ever since Arthur could speak. He couldn’t call her anything else. 

“We all know what he is, but I doubt it’s pleasant for him. He certainly won’t forget that he’s a dwarf. We needn’t remind him of it constantly. And ‘imp’ doesn’t sound very nice, does it?”

From the corner of his eye, Arthur saw Arya steal a glance at Jon, but Jon’s face remained unchanged. Theon snorted. 

“You’re too kind by far, Sansa. How do you know if this dwarf is even deserving of your kindness? I’ve heard he’s a lecherous, vile little man who’s brought all sorts of misfortune to the Lannisters.”

“Everyone is deserving of kindness,” said Sansa, sure of herself. “It doesn’t matter what evils one’s committed, and I doubt Lord Tyrion is so evil, no matter the rumours.”

“Sansa’s right,” said Sam, his voice quiet. “I’m fat, but none of you ever call me Fat Sam to my face. Because you’re kind to me.”

“Sam!” That was Sansa and Jon, both scolding at the same time. 

“We don’t call you Fat Sam behind your back, either,” sighed Jon, laying a hand on his shoulder. 

“Don’t say such things about yourself, really,” Sansa frowned. “Perhaps we are kind to you, but above all you must be kind to yourself. You deserve that at the very least, don’t you think?” 

Arthur thought that kindness to himself was asking entirely too much of Sam. He still remembered Sam telling him once about the names Lord Tarly’s wards had been encouraged to call him, back when Sam had lived at home. Arthur thought perhaps “Fat Sam” was one of the kinder names.

It wasn’t fair. Arya was short, and Jon and Theon were spindly. He himself was too skinny, and his legs too knobbly. No one went around calling any of them Jon the Jerky or Stork-legs Arthur, so why did people like to do so with Sam? Arthur had heard stable hands and serving girls refer to “Sam the fat one” behind his back for years.

The door to the lesson chamber opened, and at once everyone straightened and made to look as if they had been focusing on their studies the whole while. But it was not Maester Luwin’s grey robes that emerged. Instead, Jeyne Poole stood willowy and slight in the doorframe, her cheeks flushed. 

"They're here!" She said, smiling brightly. "Lady Stark told me to come get you all. They're here, just behind the South Hill! The king!"

Robb and Arya were on their feet at once, and Lia jumped out of her chair, knocking it over. Arthur felt his own heart race, and at once his mind raced through the myriad of stores Father had told of King Robert's valour in battle. When Father or the older soldiers and lords told of their war stories, Arthur never minded that they mentioned bloodshed and guts spilling from enemies. There was something marvellous about their tales, and King Robert had been the hero of so many. He could not wait to see the king.

"Books!" came Sansa's voice, though it, too, was breathless with excitement. "Store your books away at least, and put the stoppers in your ink!" A shuffle of papers and clinking of glass, and in a flash all were filing from the room. Sansa, arms linked with Jeyne's, was walking behind Robb, heads bent together in animated whispers. Ahead of everyone else, Arthur could head Lia's footsteps pattering down the stone steps.

At the door, Arya picked up the cushion from earlier and tossed it at Jon's direction with a raised brow and a smirk. Jon caught it, smiling too, and handed it to Sam with a tilt of his chin. For a moment, Sam stared at them, confused, but then realisation hit.

"Hey, Theon!"

Theon, who had taken off his dagger for lessons and was just reattaching it to his belt inside the doorway, looked up.

The cushion came flying into his face.

"Just you wait, Tarly! When I come for you, you won't even know what hit you!"

Laughter echoed on the stone walls of the maester's turret as the rest of them filed from the room, Sam Tarly's triumphant voice louder than all the rest.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A nice fluffly chapter before the drama begins :)
> 
> I took some of the descriptions of Arthur and Lia climbing and looking over Winterfell basically directly from Bran II in AGOT. I mean, this is fanfiction after all. I’m allowed to do that right? I was rereading it for this chapter, and the section in which Bran described his climbing was just so incredible and full of foreshadowing and symbolism that I had to borrow a lot of it into this story. So, I hope you enjoy my version, though it really can’t compare with Martin’s writing in Bran II of AGOT. Go read that chapter again if you can. Amazing prose and imagery.


	18. Peculiar Dornish Ways

Ashara stood next to Ned in the outer bailey, her best day gown fluttering around her ankles, her fur mantle tickling her cheek. They could hear the first guards riding through the winter town—their chorus of clopping hooves and jingling of armour—and the chattering of the smallfolk who lived there in summer floated in with the wind.

"The next weeks might be the biggest spectacle most people here have ever seen," she murmured under her breath.

"Or will ever see," he replied, looking down at her from the side of his eye.

"At least some of the coin will be well-spent then, no?" The bailey yards had been swept clean and covered with freshly-laundered banners, and in the Great Hall, tapestries had been revived, chandeliers and candelabras polished until they gleamed, and trestle tables waxed and polished anew. There should be feasting and entertainment aplenty to tide over the smallfolk for the coming winter, and the hunt would produce more meat.

"I defer to your judgement." His face remained solemn before his men, but his eyes were soft and dancing. "We would not have nearly so much coin to spend if not for you."

She gave him the hint of a smirk. Oh, there had been a time when he had disapproved of her methods in obtaining the money from Hoster Tully, but it was coin that Tully owed the Starks to begin with. Ashara had not snuck into Riverrun and absconded with the gold. There was no dishonour in a little…soft persuasion, surely.

Ned looked over at the children, but suddenly he frowned.

Frowning herself, Ashara peered around Ned's cloaks and furs to their line of children. Robb stood, brawny and sure, the sword he called Frost hanging by his side. Beside him, Sansa was tall and ethereal, and beside her, Arya, more than a head shorter, was gnawing impatiently at her lip, her white teeth flashing. Last in the line was Arthur, staring back at her, his big eyes innocent. The spot next to him was empty.

"Where's Elia?"

Arthur shrugged with a bewildered purse of his mouth.

"She was in front of me as we were leaving the maester's turret," said Robb, craning his neck to look around. "I thought she'd gone to change with Arya and Sansa."

"Oh, she came up to her chambers with us," Arya piped in. "But she'd already left when Sansa was done fussing over my hair."

"Stop shaking your head like that. You'll make the braids fall out again."

"Oh, for the love of the Seven," muttered Ashara as the first burst of golden banners appeared beneath the front gate. Elia gave her more headaches than the rest put together, and Ashara was certain the few grey strands she had found in her hair of late were courtesy of her youngest. Once, when she had complained in passing, Ned, in a fit of rare acerbic wit, had looked at her with a raised eyebrow and said,

"I did say we should stop after Arya. You were the one who wanted more babes."

She had since kept her growing list of grievances to herself.

"Robert won't mind," said Ned now, but just as he spoke, she saw in the corner of her eye a slight blue-clad figure dart past. Ashara snapped her head around just in time to see Elia slip behind her, her hair wild.

"Elia Stark!" she hissed, and her daughter shot her a smile so cherubic she nearly forgot her vexation completely.

Ashara sighed and closed her eyes to pray for strength, not bothering to glare up at her husband, who was chuckling under his breath. Again she leaned around Ned to catch Elia's eye.

"Fix your hair," she mouthed at her, gesturing to her head and giving Sansa a look. Sansa ducked behind the line and appeared to do something with Elia's hair, and Ashara hoped it did not too closely resemble a bird's nest.

Knights and bannermen poured into the yard now, stopping their horses and dismounting, their heads emerging from their shining helms. There was Aron Santagar, Robert's master-at-arms, still brimming with that restless youth from their childhood in Sunspear. There was the brother of Gregor Clegane, half his face covered in an angry patch of scorched red, and Ashara felt her stomach turn, though it had naught to do with the injuries.

And there was fair-haired Jaime Lannister, who had so famously stood before the entire court and tried to refuse when Robert dismissed him from the King's Guard. But in the end, Tywin Lannister had gotten his way. Now Ser Jaime lived in a manse in King's Landing with his wife and sat in Lord Tywin's seat on the king's small council, though by all accounts he attended meetings less frequently than Robert himself, preferring instead to spend his days training or in the castle with his sister and her children.

Behind him, a stable boy helped his dwarf brother from his saddle. Another Lannister who all but lived in the Red Keep, though it seemed Cersei did not keep her younger brother's council nearly so often. Tyrion Lannister dusted himself off, looking around with an eager glint in his eye that Ashara had seen in herself all too often. So, perhaps this Lannister would not be so objectionable.

Next to ride in was a tall boy with golden hair—the crown prince, no doubt—and immediately Ashara felt her chest clench. The prince had caught sight of Sansa at once, it seemed, and there was a hunter's look about his face that made bile rise in her throat. She had heard talk from the few informants she kept in King's Landing—that the prince was no kind boy, though she had never asked for anything more specific. It had never concerned her too greatly until now, when he rode through her gates.

A roar filled the yard then, and Ashara looked up as a giant of a man—in height and in girth—rode to the middle of the yard. Before she could let her shock settle, they had all sunk to their knees, but Robert soon approached, his footsteps heavy in the crunching snow.

"Ned!" The giant crushed her husband in an embrace, and Ashara could hear the impact of leather on leather as she rose.

"Winterfell is yours, Your Grace," said Ned, and Robert waved his hand.

"Yes, yes, all of that. Gods, you haven't changed much, Ned. Still walking around with that tombstone for a face. How's that even possible with your delightful wife around?"

Ashara curtseyed, but Robert just laughed and enveloped her in a hug so strong that he lifted her half off her feet, and she felt her ribs shift.

"Ah, Lady Ash, lovely as ever. This your eldest, Ned? Robb, eh?"

"Yes." Robert laughed again, clapping Robb heartily on the shoulder. "Good man. And you—gods, you look like your mother."

Sansa curtseyed, and Robert walked on. His boots stopped dead in the snow. Ashara felt Ned tense.

"Seven hells," he muttered under his breath. "What's your name?"

"Arya. Your Grace." Her daughter looked the king straight in the eye, and Ashara did not know if she should be proud of her or wish to press her head down.

The king made a hoarse grunt, and for a moment all was frozen. Finally, Robert walked on once more, telling Elia that she was a pretty one too, and Arthur that he looked as if he would be a warrior someday. The tension had melted, and Ashara found herself choking back a laugh.

The queen and her other children had walked into the bailey now, their oak and gold wheelhouse too wide for even the gates of Winterfell, and Ned knelt in the snow to kiss her ring.

"Come, Ned, take me to your crypts."

The queen, hair like harvest wheat in the sun, stood before Ashara and frowned.

"We have ridden for a month, my love," she said. "Surely the dead—"

Robert waved her words away.

"Ned?"

Ned shot her a quick glance, then nodded, called for a lantern, and led the way to the First Keep. Ashara made her curtsey, though the queen barely looked at her. Poor woman. She had seen the naked antagonism between the king and queen ten years ago, and it was no great secret in King's Landing that it had only festered since. How must it be, to know your husband frequented every whorehouse in the city? To see a woman dead near twenty years still occupy a place above you in your husband's heart? Her brother Jaime had come to take her arm.

Ashara pursed her lips, then stepped forward.

"Your Grace, shall I show you to your chambers? You must be weary and cold from the road."

The queen's gaze returned to her and looked Ashara over, her lips thinning. Behind her, her children had gathered, heads as golden as hers, followed closely by the equally blonde Lynesse Hightower, bird-like and exquisite as the day she had married Jaime Lannister during the tourney in Lannisport. Lady Lynesse caught her eye for a moment and grinned at her. Curious, Ashara nodded back.

Cersei Lannister smiled tightly.

"Of course. Where are my manners? Children, come meet Lady Stark."

Joffrey, Myrcella and Tommen were introduced, and this time Robb, too, stiffened at the way Joffrey stared at Sansa. To her dismay, she saw Sansa peer up at the prince through her lashes and blush most prettily. Her daughter was no fool, surely, but slow to see the truth before her eyes.

"Sansa, you will show the princes and princess to their rooms? And Arya, the queen's ladies?"

"Yes, Mother." Though Ashara could swear Arya took one look at Lynesse Hightower and wrinkled her nose.

"Lead the way, then, Lady Stark."

**000**

When the royal party had all been settled into chambers above the Great Hall, and preparations for the feast were well under way, Ashara climbed to Sansa's chambers to find her daughter sitting before her mirror getting her hair dressed, her wolf pup Lemons on her lap. In the chair beside her, Jeyne Poole was looking through the little box of rouges and powders. Sansa turned and Jeyne scrambled to her feet when Ashara entered.

"I'll take over," Ashara told the handmaiden who was working Sansa's hair, reaching for the hairbrush in her hand. "Go see if you can help Netty or Palla."

The girl nodded, and Ashara noted with a wry smile that she rushed without hesitation to Elia's rooms. No matter that Elia's hair was impossible to tame, anyone save Sansa and Palla would wither under Arya's murderous glare as she was subjected to having her hair dressed.

"Jeyne, dear," she continued. "Would you find Corynne for me and tell her I've changed my mind? I would wear the deep green gown instead of the dove blue. And that she needn't bother with the elaborate braids or the jewels."

"Oh. Yes, my lady."

Ashara smiled at her as she left the room. Lem looked up, yellow eyes bright, and Ashara let the wolfling lick her hand. Sansa was looking at her curiously, but Ashara stood behind her, turned her head to face the mirror, and began brushing through her dark curls. King Robert had been right. Sansa did look very much as Ashara had at six and ten, though at her age, Ashara had long lost the naïve wonder that still softened her daughter's lavender eyes.

" _Amma_? Why have you decided not to wear the blue? You always look divine in it."

Ashara smiled, though it was not without the taint of regret. Her daughter's compliments always pleased her more than was reasonable. How she would miss her sweet child when she left for Dorne once more.

"I know," she said, for there was no reason to skirt around such things. "Sometimes it does not serve to draw excess attention to myself. Do you understand?"

Sansa's eyes narrowed in thought.

"The queen this afternoon. She looked at you rather strangely."

"Good girl. Yes, I believe she did."

"She is beautiful, but…I think, not as beautiful as you, and she knows it."

Ashara laughed.

"Careful, love, you mustn't inflate my head so. And 'tis not a matter of who is more beautiful, but of what the queen herself sees and believes."

Sansa smiled back, her cheeks dimpling, and the sight was so lovely it made Ashara's heart ache.

She reached over Sansa's shoulder for the pins and hair strings.

"I saw you take the princes and princess to see the Great Hall on the way to the chambers," she began, studying her daughter's face. "Did you find them agreeable?"

A flash of white, and Sansa bite her lower lip. Their eyes met in the mirror.

"Yes. Princess Myrcella was very sweet and clever and well-mannered, and Prince Tommen was quiet, but I think he is kind."

"Hmm. And Prince Joffrey?"

The lip-gnawing continued, and the disappointment was so stark on Sansa's face that Ashara almost lost the heart to press.

"He did not seem all too pleased with our hall or his rooms," she finally answered, her voice low.

"I see." Ashara focused on her hands now as they made little braids over Sansa's crown. "It is hard to be impressed by anywhere else once one is used to the ornate halls of the Red Keep. No doubt Winterfell appears rough and plain to him."

"Yes, I can understand that. Still, this is our home, and he is our guest. Why must he look as if he were walking into a cave?"

Ashara could not quite keep the smile from her face. Sansa frowned up at her.

"Surely you did not look at Winterfell this way when you first arrived."

"Naturally not, but your father loves this castle, and so I loved it too, even before I saw it."

"Even had you been a stranger you would not have sneered at the hall as the prince did." She seemed to deflate.

"Oh, _Amma,_ it seems so unfair. I thought him so handsome and so radiant, _and_ he's a prince. I know it isn't possible for me…oh, but the way he had smiled at me—"

Her cheeks darkened, and she took to studying Lem's pointy little ears.

"I'm being ridiculous as always."

"No, love, not at all. We all have our fantasies of the world."

Sansa sighed.

"He thought I did not see his face, and smiles at me still. Now all his charm seems a front, and seeing it only makes my teeth ache."

Ashara felt her heart settle back into place. She had been right. Her daughter was no fool. She was the fool for worrying at all. Still, the disappointment in Sansa's face rankled, and Ashara did not know if she wished Sansa would lose the soft silks that shaded her eyes altogether or keep them for the rest of her life. She did not understand from whence it came. None of her other children ever wished for so much good in the world, or let the truth disappoint them so.

"He must really miss home," Sansa said as Ashara pinned another braid into the shape of a flower.

"What?"

"The prince. Perhaps it helps him to look down his nose at Winterfell. He needs to remind himself that his home is better. He must really miss it."

Ashara closed her eyes and prayed for patience.

"Love, he has only been away a month, and his family are all with him. Not every horrid person has a reason to be."

Sansa looked unconvinced.

"If you say so," she said obediently, but then reconsidered. "The prince is not horrid, surely. Just…a little rude. But mayhaps he will improve upon better acquaintance."

"Mayhaps, love." She felt her own eyebrows creep towards her hair, but did not contradict Sansa, instead winding a silver wire through her hair to match her dress. "You are right. We must not judge too quickly. Observe him carefully, then, and tell me if you change your mind about him."

Sansa had yet to see the way Joffrey had stared at her in the bailey yard—as if she were a piece of meat he would like very much to cut into. With what she had seen of the prince thus far, though, her daughter would change her mind soon enough.

**000**

Ashara could not tear her eyes away from the grotesque display that was the king groping serving maids on the floor open for dancing. It was several hours into the welcome banquet, and she was alone at the high table with the queen, sitting in a strained, icy silence, for the queen made no effort to speak with her. Robert had pulled Ned from his chair on the pretence of making toasts with some of the minor lords who had arrived for the celebration, though it was clear that had not been his intention.

Ned had disappeared from view—no doubt to find some quiet corner to sober from the wine Robert had poured down his throat—and Ashara could almost feel badly enough for him not to resent that he had left her alone here to freeze.

For all the reports she'd had over the years of how the king was no longer the strapping young man he had been, the sight of Robert had still utterly shocked her. He had puffy bags beneath his eyes, his jowls were sagging, his neck was nearly as thick as it was long and his belly protruded well past his feet. She knew that Ned had spent the afternoon with abject horror bubbling at the back of his mind at the sight of his friend.

For a mad moment, her mind returned to that night of Gregor Clegane's escape, when she had found Robert in the royal sept. Gods help her, had she told him to keep drinking if kingship did not suit him? Had she been mad? It seemed the king had taken her words to heart and more besides. In the middle of the hall, Robert leaned down and kissed one of the serving girls flush on the mouth, sloshing his wine, and Ashara flinched. From the corner of her eye, Cersei Lannister's face seemed to sharpen.

Finally, she averted her gaze, searching the hall for something that did not turn her stomach. A movement caught her eye, and she turned to see Ser Aron Santagar raise his wine glass to her. She beamed back. How strange it was, to see that familiar face from her childhood pasted into her life at present.

Aron was two years younger. They had played together in the Water Gardens, studied together at Sunspear, and she had bested him at throwing darts and daggers, though looking dashing had always taken priority above actual martial performance for Aron. When all the dust of the Rebellion had settled, he had become Robert's master-at-arms and, to everyone's great surprise, married her friend Dyanna Dalt. Dyanna had stayed in King's Landing, however, and Ashara could only sigh at her friend's poor health. It would have been wonderful to see Dy's sweet face.

She had danced with Aron perhaps an hour past, and Ashara allowed herself a private laugh at the way Ned's face had darkened. Ned did not dance anymore—a shame, really—but he grew almost adorably jealous when she did with others, and so she kept her dancing to a minimum and delighted in teasing him the few times she indulged.

"Oh, come now, husband, I have not seen him in a decade," she had whispered to Ned as she left the table. "And you needn't worry. I didn't share _his_ bed in my wayward youth."

Something wild and almost dangerous flashed in his staid eyes, and Ashara had felt a thrill down her back. Another benefit of teasing him would come much later in the evening.

Now Aron seemed to disappear once more into the throng. At the far end of the room, her eyes stopped on Jon's dark form, nearly a whole head taller than the rest, bent in conversation with—was that Ben? So he had made it to the feast after all. Both looked up at her then, and she smiled again, hoping they could see her. Jon seemed to have overindulged in the wine this evening, but she could not blame him. It had been a cruel thing, to separate him so, but perhaps Ned was right in a way. It was best not to seat him so close to Arya and under the king's nose, especially after that afternoon.

Benjen, too, raised a goblet to her, and she raised hers in return. She could still remember Benjen Stark, barely 16, staring at the box carrying Lyanna's bones, struggling not to cry. She had tried every argument she could think of to convince him from joining the Wall—it had been clear as day that the brothers would have weathered the grief best in one another's company—but he had been adamant that all the misfortune to befall his sister had been his fault, and neither she nor Ned could convince him otherwise.

He had only remained in Winterfell this long because there must always be a Stark in the castle, he had said. If only he had convinced her against her folly at Harrenhal. If only he had spoken up sooner about her unhappiness. Not two months after she and Ned had arrived, Benjen had rode through the north gates and stayed away for nearly five years.

Wounds had thawed and healed since then—or scarred, at the very least—but Ashara knew Ned still mourned the loss of this last brother, no matter that he visited now with some regularity.

She felt the queen's eyes on her.

"That is your goodbrother in the back?"

Ashara turned to face her, her eyes cool like the trees in winter.

"Yes, Your Grace. Benjen is First Ranger at the Wall."

"Ah, a sworn brother of the Night's Watch. How lovely for you."

Her tone niggled, but the queen continued.

"And next to him? That is your husband's bastard? They both have the Stark look."

Gods, this woman was either much cannier or much more of a malicious cretin than Ashara had given her credit for.

"Yes," she said carefully.

"You are very generous, Lady Stark. I've heard you raised him alongside your own children. What a kindness."

Ah, most certainly the malicious cretin, then.

Ashara gave her a very proper smile.

"They are all my children, and 'twas no kindness. When I married my husband, he had two sons without mothers. I simply took on the role. Many would have."

The queen narrowed her eyes, considering.

"I see. What...peculiar notions, Lady Stark. You do not fear the bastard's influence?"

Ashara dug her fingernails into her palm. Oh, it would be unfair to blame Tywin Lannister's children for the father's crimes, but Cersei Lannister was already proving herself a most unwelcome guest, all on her own.

"I am Dornish, Your Grace. We are not fearful of bastardy in Dorne. Children are children." She looked over at Jon once more. Theon had joined their little party, laughing as Ghost tentatively licked his face. "Their nature is determined by those who raise them, not a toss of the coin at birth."

"So, it is all Dornishmen who are generous," said Cersei, draining her wine and looking over the hall. Ashara followed her gaze to where Elia sat with Sansa and the princess. Elia was no doubt telling some elaborate story, her face alight with animation and her arms flung wide. Arya was nowhere to be seen.

"My children have told me how charming they found your daughters."

Inwardly, Ashara sighed, but smiled and thanked the queen before catching Sansa's eye and tilting her chin. Sansa caught Elia's arm and whispered something, then they took their leave of the princess and made their way to the high table. They curtseyed before the queen, Elia looking very much a young lady for likely the first time in her life. A jarring sight.

"Where's your sister?" Ashara asked.

"Here, _Amma_." Arya seemed to materialise from thin air, and bobbed a curtsey not nearly deep enough for the queen. Ashara narrowed her eyes. She had not noticed before just how low Arya's gown was cut.

"Your Grace."

"Hmm, lovely," the queen said airily. Her goblet had been refilled, and she took another sip, peering at her daughters over the rim.

"And how old are you?"

"I am six and ten, Arya is five and ten, and Elia is two and ten, Your Grace," Sansa answered.

"Sixteen...fifteen…Even your eldest is not promised, Lady Stark?"

"No, Your Grace."

"How unusual."

"More of my peculiar Dornish ways, I'm afraid." For a moment, the queen looked at her with eyes like cut sea glass. "We do not like our children to marry before twenty."

"Twenty! My, that is late."

"Perhaps. But I married at one and twenty, and found my age no hindrance."

The queen made a humming sound.

"My Joffrey was born when I was but eight and ten. Arya, was it? You seem to have more your of father's look than your mother's, though your eyes are still…hm…What lovely patterns on your gown. Did you do them yourself?"

Surely the queen was not…

"No. Sansa did them. I don't embroider."

"Oh?" Her eyebrow twitched. "What do you do with your days then?"

 _My mother teaches me to run a household,_ Arya could have said. Or, _I attend lessons with the maester._ Even _I ride_ would have been better, but Arya was Arya.

"I spend most mornings with my brothers in the training yard."

The queen's eyebrows shot up, and sure enough, her shock lit the mischief in Arya's eyes. Not so bad a thing, if Ashara understood the queen's interest correctly.

"I like throwing blades, and archery, and can wield a lance, but I am best at sword-fighting. I can wield a greatsword if pressed, but I much prefer the rapier. I have heard that Prince Joffrey is an accomplished swordsman. I look forward to sparring with him these next days. Your Grace."

Ashara bit down hard on her tongue to keep the laughter in, and from the look on Sansa's she was doing the same. Elia made a choking sound, quickly covering it with a cough. Cersei Lannister's face froze for a heartbeat, and then she looked down at her goblet, blinking as if there was sand in her eyes.

"My," she finally said, a mocking laugh in her voice. "Lady Stark, how _are_ you to get your daughters married?"

"I thank you for your concern, Your Grace," said Ashara, not at all bothered. "No doubt they will find husbands who appreciate each for their talents. Not all lords have liked their wives to sew and recite poetry and embody the feminine graces."

The slight took a moment to settle, but when it did Cersei Lannister's eyes were sharp as cut glass once more. Ashara gave her a most courteous smile and sipped her wine. She turned to Sansa.

"Love, did you not prepare a harp piece specifically for the queen's visit? Girls, help your sister bring her harp and her music. Your Grace, I do hope my eldest daughter is not nearly so much a shock to you."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Arya trolling Cersei was mildly enjoyable, and that Sansa isn’t quite so insufferable.
> 
> Also--LYNESSE HIGHTOWER :))))) I've very excited about her inclusion here, and have much havok planned.


	19. Jon Snow Feast Outtake

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not really a chapter, just a scene I had originally planned for the previous chapter, but left out because nothing important really happens. If you want more of Jon, including Jon/Arya interactions, this might be a fun bit of fluff to read :)

Jon was well and thoroughly drunk—a perfect state to be in this evening. In the Great Hall, the lights and delicious smells and the sounds of music and merrymaking swam pleasantly around him, though it was growing rather warm for his liking. Already he had undone the ties of both his jerkin and his doublet, but still there was a lively flame growing in his belly, and sweat prickled on his neck. The young squires he sat with at the end of the hall all agreed his face was turning redder by the hour.

As if he had developed a tick, for the hundredth time that evening he glanced up to the high table. One of the men from the king’s party was up there now, bowing low over where his mother sat, and he saw her smile, nod, then follow him to the space cleared for dancing. As she walked past his father, she leaned down to whisper in his ear, and Jon almost laughed at the way his father’s already stiff face seemed to darken like that of a harassed old cat.

Laughter erupted around him again—the youths with whom he sat had been exchanging stories of battle and hunting and bedding women these many hours past—and beneath the table he felt Ghost perk up his ears, then nudge his leg. He skewered the carcass of a roast chicken that had been relieved of its legs and wings and surreptitiously slid it under the table, where Ghost pounced on it with silent enthusiasm.

All counted, this was the pup’s second whole chicken tonight, and Jon did not understand how all the food even fit in his belly. Earlier, two of the grown dogs had come and tried to relieve Ghost of a leg, but had been frightened off by his bared teeth and silent snarl. Jon did not think he would ever again be so proud of any creature.

He was certain none of his siblings had been allowed to have their wolves under the table, and no doubt the boisterous youths that surrounded Jon were much more interesting than the queen’s children. Jon had gotten a good look at the royal party when they had paraded past in the procession, and if he were honest, it had been quite enough.

First had come his father escorting the queen, who had been dripping with gold and jewels that matched her hair and eyes. She was truly as beautiful as people said, and Jon hoped Theon would not remember that he had bet him a silver stag that the queen would not be as comely as the rumours told. Yet, there was something cold about her, and even from his seat now, he could see the queen’s icy stare into the distance as she emptied her wine glass.

After that had come the king himself with his mother on his arm, and the air around them could not have been more different. Both were talking and smiling the whole time, and inside the great doors his mother whispered something to the king that made him throw his head back and roar with laughter. She did not look at Jon, but as they passed where Jon sat, she dropped her hand and gave him a wave before folding it back into her gown.

The king himself was a bewildering disappointment to Jon. Since he could remember, his father had told them stories of Robert Baratheon’s prowess in battle—of how he rode into the melee, six and a half feet tall with his antlered helm on his head, swinging a war hammer Father could barely even lift. And yet this man was bearded and fat and red in the face, stumbling half drunk down he hall. What savagery the years could do to a man, Jon had thought, and shivered.

Next had come his siblings—Robb with the thirteen-year-old Princess Myrcella beside him, seemingly oblivious to the shy blush on her face, for she was but a child; Prince Joffrey escorting Sansa, who looked radiant as usual, but Jon had misliked immediately the way Joffrey was looking at his sister; Arya, paired with the plump ten-year-old Prince Tommen, who was as tall as she was, followed by Arthur and Lia who looked like matching dolls—and after them had walked Theon and Sam.

Each sought out Jon in the throng as they passed and offered him a smile, and Jon felt himself sitting just a bit taller. Arya had given him a wry, sideways look, as if daring him to laugh at her predicament, and Robb had offered him an apologetic shrug. Even Theon had smiled half in commiseration as he passed, and Jon had thought perhaps he would be honourable, and pay up for their bet even if Theon did not remember it.

Ser Jaime had been a sight to behold. For all that he had heard of the kingslayer’s misdeeds, he looked like a true knight—even a king. And then there had been his dwarf brother, and as Jon watched him struggle up the aisle on his stunted legs, his face flat and his forehead protruding, he thought again of what Sansa had said of being kind. This man had likely had very little of kindness in his life, but truly he did not look benevolent or deserving of it.

“Are you going to pour me some of that wine?”

Jon jumped. He had been drinking for hours now, and had not heard Arya sneak up behind him until her head popped beside his.

“Damnation. You scared the wits out of me.”

She rolled her eyes and tilted her goblet at him expectantly.

“You look like you’re having more fun than the rest of us put together,” she sighed, popping a roasted lantern pepper into her mouth as Jon filled her glass. “Joffrey keeps ogling Sansa, Myrcella keeps ogling Robb, and Tommen keeps ogling the suckling pig. _Amma_ only gave us one flagon of wine for the table, and I’m going mad.”

She downed half the goblet, then slid into the seat next to Jon to pet Ghost, who narrowed his eyes suspiciously at her before giving her a tentative lick. It was funny. Jon laughed. Hard. Arya raised a dark eyebrow.

“Well, you really have been having fun.”

“Yes,” said Jon, drawing out the ’s’ sound. “The company down here is no doubt better. And if Prince Joffrey keeps looking at Sansa like that, we might have to do something about him.”

Arya grinned, emptying her wine.

“Robb’s face has been turning into Father’s all evening. Don’t do anything to Joffrey without Sansa knowing, though. She’ll be put out if you mess with him before she’s decided against him, and I’ll be the one hearing her moping.”

Jon frowned.

“When has Sansa ever decided against anyone?”

Arya smirked at him and refilled her goblet.

“Don’t worry, big brother. No doubt he’ll make a nuisance of himself these next days and Sansa will come to her senses. I’ll come to find you to plot his downfall, promise.”

Jon was glad he’d rarely gotten on Arya’s bad side growing up. She used to hit back her revenge with lightning efficacy—that slug in the stomach when he and Robb had tried to scare their sisters in the crypts came to mind—but in recent years she had taken to plotting revenge schemes as one would plot murder.

Jon had yet to be on the receiving end of one of those, though he had seen Robb bite into a powder cake only to find it topped with salt and white pepper, not sugar, and heard Theon scream bloody murder because Arya had fashioned a broken doll to drop over his bed in the middle of the night.

“Seven hells,” Arya said now, peering under the table. “Did Ghost eat all that chicken?”

Jon shot her a toothy grin.

“He’ll be bigger than all his littermates soon.”

Arya narrowed her eyes.

“Size isn’t everything.”

“Said like the true giantess you are,” snickered Jon, and he reached out to muss her hair, but Arya was quick—quicker than usual, for some reason. She ducked under his arm, purple eyes glittering with fierce mischief, and jabbed him in his ticklish spot with her sharp little elbow.

Jon choked on his breath and sputtered.

“Arya!”

“I endured nearly an hour of sitting for this hair,” she hissed, and jabbed him again. “Careful, big brother, or I might decide to hide something unpleasant in your shoes.”

“That’ll stay with you,” came a voice behind them, and Theon’s dark head emerged into view. He, too, held an empty goblet, and Jon obligingly filled it without being asked. “I still never put my feet into my shoes without checking, all thanks to Arya’s head cheese stunt.”

“You should be doing that anyway,” said Arya, swivelling around to him and leaning forward, chin on her hand. “I helped you develop some good habits.”

Growing up on the Iron Islands, Theon has never seen head cheese, and was still put off by it to this day. Not that Jon blamed him. When Jon had been thirteen, Theon had done something or other to incite Arya’s wrath. He had put his boots on the next morning only to step into coagulated pig’s tongue. He and Robb had mocked Theon’s high-pitched scream for a whole month.

“Aye, you’re the image of the Mother, really,” said Theon, and Arya smirked at him.

“Cheers to that. I am the height of benevolence.”

Jon sputtered on his wine this time. Theon laughed, his eyes never once leaving Arya’s face except when it dipped—Damnation, did _Amma_ see how low Arya’s bodice was cut?

Jon felt himself glaring at them both. These past months, he sometimes wondered wildly if they were having a tryst. Jon had no idea what two people who were bedding together would look like before others, but surely not. Theon wouldn’t. Arya would, and she needed no other reason than that it was Theon, but surely Theon wouldn’t. No, perhaps Arya was having a laugh with flirting, and had trapped Theon into her games. 

He didn’t meet Theon yesterday, and he knew his sister even better. Theon was a scoundrel, but if there was any advantage being taken, it was Arya doing the taking. Still, Jon was certain Theon was not bedding his sister. He wouldn’t. Right?

Just the thought made his skin crawl. A disadvantage of drinking, this: ridiculous thoughts tended to burst into his head uninvited.  
  
Preferring not to see or think about the scene behind him, Jon turned back to Ghost and poured himself more wine. Overall, not a bad evening, if he could forget the sting of the reason he sat back here. The hall was swimming pleasantly once more, and it wasn’t even so hot anymore.

Later, he remembered his Uncle Benjen appearing, petting Ghost as he shed his frosty cloak. He had explained Ghost's name--because he was white all over and silent as a spectre.

Jon remembered also boasting that he could best Robb with the sword. Uncle Ben had joked that they could use a man like him at the Wall, and then they both laughed, his uncle reminding him not to tell his mother he had said such a thing, for fear _Amma_ would slice his throat open with her knives for suggesting it.

Some time later, Arya had cursed under her breath, downed her wine, and scurried away. Jon barely remembered any details. It was all blending together into a nice, relaxed, orange haze. The next thing he knew, morning light was shooting painfully into the back of his eyes, and a woollen sock had replaced his tongue.


	20. Howl of the Wolf

When Ashara had made her rounds of the guest rooms above the Great Hall, making sure all in the king's party were settled in for the night, she descended the stone staircase once more, careful with her steps, for the wine still blurred the corners of her mind.

She slipped into the hall to survey the tidying after the feast one last time. Her feet were sore and her back faintly ached, but the entire evening had flowed one entertainment into another, one course after the next without any hiccups, and Ashara was pleased with herself.

In the dimming light of the wall sconces, servant girls cleaned bones off floors and mopped up spilled wine. Kitchen maids were clearing away the uneaten food into platters, and one of them was gathering the bread trenchers soaked in meat juices in a bucket to give out to townsfolk and villagers who worked the surrounding lands.

It was a tradition of benevolence and charity on the part of the lord, but the summer had been long and Ned was a good lord besides. Ashara was fairly certain that no family relied on this stale bread to fill their bellies, but instead took it as extra feed for their pigs.

Servants had cleared the tables to the sides of the hall and now lowered the vast iron chandeliers to the floor, flicking off the melted wax stubs and replacing them.

Ashara tried not to think of how many candles they had used up tonight alone, and how many more they would be needing for the next weeks as they fed the king's retinue every evening. And that was just the beginning—she could not let her mind wander now to how much food and drink and fresh linens would need to be added to the castle accounts.

Ashara sighed as she paced around the Great Hall one last time before making her way back to the Great Keep proper. She had never wanted for coin in her life, but frugality with money seemed etched into her from birth. Growing up, her brothers and friends had often teased when she had hoarded silver coins in her chests. 'Whatever do you keep coin for, Ash? No one is asking you to pay for food and clothes, and you never buy frivolities as it is."

Still, she had meant her earlier words to Ned. The coin for this royal visit was, in the end, money relatively well spent, no matter that the sums on the page had made Ashara grit her teeth and grimace more than once in the past month.

Perhaps the wine had played with her mind more than she'd known, for she decided now that she was being ridiculous. They had plenty of coin to spare, what with the timber, furs, and marble trade, and even more so since she had sent off that letter to Hoster Tully the year the Greyjoy Rebellion had broken out. Why did she fret so about money? She was wasting her time.

Years ago, in an effort to convince Ned to write Robert and legitimise Jon, Ashara had spent days rummaging through old Stark records, determined to find precedence for legitimising a bastard even when the lord had a true-born heir. To her frustrated dismay, she had found no such document, but what she did come across made her blood boil. Hoster Tully had promised a great many things in the marriage contract between Lady Catelyn and Brandon Stark—none of which he had fulfilled when Catelyn married Ned.

When she had ceased composing vehemently curse-ridden missives in her head, she had sat in her solar and penned the slippery trout a letter in her primmest hand.

_My Lord Tully,_

_It is my hope that this winter has been easy on you and yours. We in the North struggle as we do every winter, though with your generous discounts for foodstuffs imported from the Riverlands, the lives of the smallfolk and lords alike have been greatly eased. However, it has recently come to my attention that the discounted prices we pay are three quarters the asking price of Riverlands farmers and not the two fifths as dictated by the marriage contract between yourself and the late Lord Rickard._

_Surely this is a miscommunication between our steward and yours, and I am certain discrepancies will be remedied by your next shipment._

_Further, it appears that Winterfell was never sent any of Lady Catelyn's dowry—including coin and furniture. Again, I am certain this was an oversight on the part of your servants, for surely they have been kept busy in the past years. Nonetheless, if you could remedy this oversight as soon as is convenient, it would be greatly appreciated._

_Finally, I understand that, over the years, you have expressed your concerns to my lord husband that your grandson is being raised alongside a bastard-born child. I can understand that you might perceive this as a slight, and you have my sincerest apologies for any offence, but I assure you that my lord husband means no insult._

_In truth, he has long thought of legitimising his bastard son. He loves the child dearly, and it would no doubt ease your mind if the child also bore the Stark name, and no longer the stain of bastardy. However, I am afraid he has been hesitant to offend me and my Dornish relations, and so has not written to the king._

_However, if legitimising his bastard son would put your mind at ease, Lord Tully, I would be willing to oblige. In Dorne, we do not despise children born outside the bounds of marriage. If you wish it, I would write to the king directly. King Robert would agree at once to such a trifle, and my husband would not feel he was causing offence to me and mine._

_Please do write back and inform me as to the date we can expect the coin and shipment of foodstuffs from Riverrun, and if I can dispel your worries about the moral influences on your grandson by asking King Robert to legitimise Jon Snow._

_May the Seven keep you._

_Yours Sincerely,_

_Ashara Dayne, Lady of Winterfell_

Hoster Tully never did write a return letter—gods only knew why, for she had been most courteous—but he did dispatch coin and furniture North most promptly. News had arrived by then that Balon Greyjoy had risen against the crown, and Ned had called his banners and was preparing for war.

Mere days before they were set to march, the coin, furniture and foodstuffs had arrived from Riverrun, and half the Northern lords had stared at the shipment slack-jawed as Ashara briskly set about making her inventory.

Of course, she never would have followed through on her threat, no matter how devoid of logic were Ned's reasons. Yet Hoster Tully did not know that, and why should she not use his ignorance and misplaced prejudice to their benefit? He was the party at fault to begin with. She was only righting a wrong.

And this had been, besides, the one sliver of good that had come from the rumour ordeal her poor Jon had endured. Nothing could make up for how her heart had shattered when she'd needed to snuff out the desperate hope in Jon's eyes that evening, but she would take any good the gods offered. When she had explained all this to a half-affronted Ned, he had been silent for many moments before pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You win, Ash," he'd sighed, sitting back to look at her, both amused and defeated. "I am only glad you have no reason to work against me."

In the following months, when winter loomed grey and hopeless outside her window and her empty bed suddenly stretched out like an endless wasteland, she would sometimes remember his face then—and their laughter-laced ardour that followed—and it would get her through one more night alone.

Ashara had been letting her mind wander so freely that the blonde figure suddenly in her path nearly shocked a scream from her lips. She tripped on her step and pressed her palm into the wall for support. The stone was rough. Good. Warm. Steady.

"Lady Lynesse," she said when she had recovered, holding up her lantern and squinting. "My apologies, I was not watching where I was going."

Lynesse Hightower stood in the twisting corridor connecting the back of the Great Hall to the Great Keep, a great white mantle wrapped around her small frame, her golden head reflecting the moonlight through the thin windows. She seemed to glow.

She smiled, her delicate features precise and exquisite.

"Not at all, Lady Stark. I fear I have startled you."

Ashara returned her smile.

"Are you lost? I fear these halls are old and full of false turns."

"It would seem I am. How feather-brained of me," she said, her eyes still on Ashara's, not looking the least bit embarrassed.

"Well, if you'll follow me then." Ashara gestured to the way she had come, and Lady Lynesse followed.

What a pair Lynesse Hightower made with Jaime Lannister, Ashara could not help thinking as they wound their way back to the Great Hall and the guest chambers above, exchanging trifling pleasantries. Both were golden and radiantly beautiful. A match made by the gods. Surely there were Westerland bards singing of the couple already.

As soon as Tywin Lannister had assured Ser Jaime's release from the King's Guard, he had set about finding him a wife, but whether by his own reputation or Ser Jaime's reluctance, it had been six years before a bride was finally secured.

The lords of the realm may have collectively turned a deaf ear to the rumours that Tywin Lannister had ordered Princess Elia and her babes butchered during the Sack of King's landing. They may even have sighed and shaken their heads in defeat when the new king had wed Cersei, for though many knew the truth, they could not put aside that Tywin Lannister was powerful and rich, and the crown needed his alliance. However, most lords also loved their daughters, and so when it came to the thought of their own girls marrying into such a blood-stained family, most were hesitant.

Leyton Hightower, it appeared, was not among those hesitant lords. The Hightowers had long been ambitious—their role in the Dance notwithstanding, they were always a quiet, shadowed influence at court and in the Reach—and Leyton Hightower must have been over the moon at the opportunity to have both the Reach and the Westerlands ruled by his future grandsons.

During the tourney at Lannisport to celebrate King Robert's triumph over the Ironborn, Ashara and Ned had been two of at least five hundred crowded into the sept as Jaime Lannister, his face lacking all signs of a happy bridegroom, draped his cloak around an eighteen-year-old Lady Lynesse.

However, though Alerie Hightower had given birth to three sons and a daughter in the years since she had married Mace Tyrell, it appeared that ten years of marriage had not produced a single Hightower heir to Casterly Rock. By all accounts, relations between husband and wife were cordial—even warm. Lynesse was often at court with her husband and his siblings, and Ashara's informants never heard of Jaime frequenting whorehouses or entertaining other bedfellows.

Yet it had been no love match—anyone in the sept that day could see that. And if they had grown amorous over the years, Ashara had certainly noticed no sign of it in the bailey yard this afternoon.

Still, even had they only done their marital duty, the couple should surely have children by now. She studied the fine-boned woman walking beside her. There was a carefree buoyancy about her, as if she really were but a pretty bird, and Ashara decided that this was not a woman strained by an inability to produce an heir or weighed down by the grief of multiple miscarriages.

Ashara narrowed her eyes. What were the Lannisters playing at? What was this strange marriage?

Or perhaps she was wrong by leagues. Perhaps it had simply been too many years since she was at court among those with many masks over their faces and layers of silks to hide their lives. Perhaps she could no longer read others as clearly as she once did.

"Tell me, Lady Stark, how have you lived up here these many years?" They were on the stairs, and Lady Lynesse stopped to lean back against the railing, watching her with rapt blue eyes.

"I have been cold in my thickest furs ever since we crossed the Neck, and yet it is still summer. You must be used to warmer climes still. How have you survived?"

"It is not so cold inside this castle," she said. "Surely you have found the walls are warm? It is warmer still in my rooms."

"So. You do not leave your rooms during the winter, then?"

Ashara laughed.

"It is a struggle, but I do try to stay in the castle when it is too cold."

“It must have been hard for you. Not just the weather. All these Northmen seem so…different. Most boisterously forthright, yet you don't seem fazed by them at all."

Ashara felt her eyebrow twitch, and she motioned that they should keep climbing the steps.

"It has been seventeen years, Lady Lynesse. I am rather used to the ways of the men up here. There is rather a charm to their...forthright manners, as you say."

"And the women? Already I have heard tales of warrior women from a House…Mormont? Tell me, did you raise your daughters to ride into battle alongside their brothers?"

It was Ashara who stopped short in the empty corridor now, glancing curiously sideways at Lynesse Hightower. What had she and her goodsister the queen been discussing? Surely Cersei had yet to inform her of Arya's shocking pastimes. What had this woman been tasked with weaselling out of her before the king had even arrived at Winterfell?

"Most Northern houses do not train their daughters to be warriors," she replied carefully. "I have seen more Dornishwomen wield weapons. And if the gods are good, no one will be riding into battle again in our lifetime, wouldn't you say, Lady Lynesse?"

Lady Lynesse smiled again, slow and full, and inclined her head.

"Of course. As you say, Lady Stark. If the gods are good."

Gods, this woman might look like the Maiden herself, but there was nothing innocent about that smile. Again, her mind drifted back to the cursory reports she'd had on the Lannister manse in King's Landing. Not once was Lady Lynesse seen entertaining improper guests, and not once was she observed or rumoured to carry on with other men. Truly, she was faithful to her husband with whom she shared no passion? With a smile like that?

They had come to the door to her chambers, and Ashara pushed it open for her. She stepped just inside, but turned to face Ashara before she could bid her goodnight.

"Lady Stark, you have been so gracious a hostess thus far." Languidly, she reached up a slender hand to tuck a loose lock of hair behind her ear, her fingers lingering in the gold strands beside her throat. "I think I shall greatly enjoy my visit, despite the cold."

"I hope you will. You and the king and queen."

"I do hope you will consider me a friend. You seem accustomed to the North, as you say, but surely it must be lonely for you, a southern woman up here all by yourself."

Something was strange about her words and the lithe way her voice sounded—too familiar?—but Ashara could not quite place her finger on the pulse of it.

"You are very kind, Lady Lynesse."

"Oh, but please, you must call me Nessa. All my friends do." Ashara would stake her life to wager that Jaime Lannister did not call this woman 'Nessa', but before she could think more on the strange turn this interaction had taken, Lynesse had put her hand on her arm.

"And your name is Ashara, is it not? How very beautiful. I've truly never met any woman so beautiful as you."

Her jaw fell slack.

Understanding crashed over her, and suddenly hysterical mirth rose like steam in her throat. Gods help her, it had truly been twenty years since she'd had a woman approach her thus, and her eyes had been so clouded by time and disuse that she had missed the signs right before her.

Pieces settled into place then—Lynesse Hightower's supposed lack of liaisons, the bland amicability between husband and wife, the look the woman had levelled on her when she'd found her in the corridor…Had she truly been lost? Doubtful. She must have known Ashara would walk back that way.

It might have been two decades since she had shared a woman's bed, but it would seem Ashara had yet to lose the look about her that invited such attentions. Or mayhaps Lynesse was only influenced by knowledge of where Ashara had been born. She pulled her hand away.

"I am sorry," said Ashara, a conciliatory smile on her lips. "I do believe I have misled you."

Sure enough, Lynesse Hightower frowned, her knotted brows like wisps of feathers in the candlelight.

"I don't understand. You are Dornish, are you not? Surely your marriage is no hindrance to you."

The laughter bubbled past her lips before she could stop herself.

"Oh, there is much about the Dornish you misunderstand. We are a whole kingdom, not one person." She paused, considering if she spoke too much, but it was late, and she felt light with wine and humour. "You are an enchanting woman, Lynesse Hightower. There was a time I would have accepted your invitation without a second thought. But not now." She smiled her proper hostess smile.

"Good night."

As she ambled back through the winding corridors and up the steps to her rooms, Ashara threw her head back and laughed and laughed, letting her mirth bounce about the dancing grey walls.

Oh, she had spoken true. Perhaps Lynesse Hightower did not have the look of the kind of women Ashara once found herself drawn to, but she was alluring and exquisitely beautiful, and at eight and ten Ashara would have happily spent the night and more with her.

Yet now...now it felt strange to be so patently desired by someone who was not her husband. Not objectionable, perhaps, but the interlude had made her dizzy with recollections of her libertine youth. Her body was a gift to her, she had once thought, and she used it as such—a weapon sometimes, a tool in others; a gift to be bestowed on a lover, or a way to barter pleasures for herself.

Sex was wild, or lewd, or beautiful, or comforting. Or simply an hour or two of diversion. Yes, had she never known the feel of Ned Stark's hands and mouth on her skin, Lynesse Hightower would have been a welcome diversion.

But she had. She did. When they had danced that first night at Harrenhal, Ashara had been loath to let go of his hand when the line broke with the music, so intoxicating was the texture of his skin on her palm. And when she kissed him the next day, his grey eyes glinting with surprise, the touch of his warmth was not on her body, but somewhere deep in her being.

She had been happy with her lot before she ever met Ned Stark, for she had not known, before, that lying with a person could mean she gave her glowing, lonesome heart into their hands. And after, there could be no returning to the way she had used her body before, for now she knew it was a gift she wished to share with Ned alone, as he shared his with her, and through them her entire being became his.

For nineteen years she had lived as a frog in the bottom of a well, looking up at the patch of sky, believing the world was only as big as the rim. Ned Stark had pulled her out of the well and into the sea, and she saw the endless blue expanse around her. When he stood beside her with his strong hand around hers, she could reach it all.

Ashara laughed again as she climbed the steps to her chambers, the flickering candlelight making her head spin. How different her life could have been, all alone, and how she would have lived, not ever knowing what it felt like to soar through the endless sky.

She stopped before her chamber and slipped inside.

000

“Husband?”

Ashara shut the oaken door with a click, the mirth still clinging to her face. Her entire body was humming, and when Ned turned to face her in only trousers and shirt, her heart jumped, just a bit. 

He smiled at her, half bewildered, though his eyes locked on hers and would not let go. 

“Back at last. What is so amusing?”

He walked slowly to where she leaned against the door, and Ashara reached for the open collar of his shirt, playing with the fabric between her fingers. 

“Oh, just…this life, really. People, and happenstance, and the choices we made.”

He looked down at her, eyebrows raised, but she just laughed and pulled his mouth to hers. He tasted faintly of wine still, and she was drunk again, or perhaps she was never sober. The very smell of him was as hot as his touch, and his lips were soft, though they were demanding this night. 

A low growl rumbled in the back of his throat, and suddenly he had pressed her into the door, his whole body against the length of hers. She heard herself gasp. It was like he had lit her skin on fire, and she could feel him burning through the fabric of his shirt, though even that last barrier she desperately wanted gone.

“Why are you still dressed,” she breathed when he’d pulled away for air. Laughing, she divested him of his shirt and then his trousers, and he unlaced her gown and pulled it and her shift over her head in one motion. For just a moment she shivered in her smallclothes, but then his hard body was against hers again, and behind her, the wood of the door was smooth on her back. 

His hand slid to her hips, undoing the ties there, and she let him lift her as she wrapped her legs around his waist, their lips still joined. She felt the raw hunger stir in her, and she made a needy sound, then flushed when she felt his satisfied smile. He was hard already—she could feel him pressed against her, silky and unyielding—and it sent a lick of flame rising in her centre. 

He wanted her. He had wanted her all evening. He had wanted her all these years, and still the knowledge never failed to make her weak-limbed and giddy. With fumbling fingers, she gripped the length of him and heard his breath catch. She smiled to herself and guided him into her, the feel of his erection hot and slick and so _sweet_ against her folds. 

She moaned into his mouth as she sank onto him, feeling the rumble of his growl deep in her own chest. For some heartbeats they stayed thus, their bodies tangled together, kissing as if desperate to drink the other in, until Ashara rolled her hips, and Ned groaned almost in pain and slammed her back into the door. 

He took her there, claimed her, pressed against the wood, his unyielding fingers digging into her as he drove himself inside. Her desire pooled, aching in her belly. He was seldom so rough with her, but a dark corner of her craved the heady mix of pain and pleasure so sharp it flared white in the dark of the room. _Yes,_ she thought. _Yes._ _My body, my heart, my very being. You claimed them all decades ago, and I’m yours, all of me, always._

She bit his shoulder. He hissed through his teeth, and she let her body take in his storm as it was meant to. She had been thrumming for his touch all evening, ever since she had teased him and he had turned those feral eyes on her. Gods, but this man was the very essence of her life. How had she lived half of it without him, she wondered, and told him so between her gasps. 

“Don’t you know, Ned Stark? You make me mad for you.”

He made a hungry sound in his throat, but suddenly braced against the door, ceasing his movements. Ashara felt herself squirm against him, her nails sinking into his back at the pressure he had trapped in her.

“Shh,” he whispered in her ear. She stilled, heat creeping under her skin, and then she heard herself whimper as he carried her away from the door, the movement pressing him deeper into her body.

Yet when he had laid her on the bed, he did not rise over her but instead kissed down her stomach to the damp curls between her legs. She felt his tongue on the sensitive skin. 

“Oh, you are going to kill me.”

He hummed, a smile in his voice, and the vibrations of that were delicious too. 

He teased her with his tongue and fingers, sucking on the bud there until Ashara thought she might scream. Everything in her begged for more of his fingers pressing inside her, more of the glorious friction of his tongue, more of his stubble rubbing wicked fire against her thighs, _more, just…_

He stopped. She cried out at the sudden loss of his touch.

“What…why’d you…don’t stop.”

He looked up at her, catching her eye. Very deliberately, he moved a finger back in, deep, and she gasped, the pleasure of it sharp. His eyes were keen and wild, like those of a wolf sighting it’s prey. 

“I think, wife, that I still need to repay you for teasing me at the feast.”

She gasped again, half laughing, but then his mouth was on her once more, and the sound melted into a moan in her throat. Oh, but she should not have teased him so, she thought distantly as she writhed against his mouth. Yet she would do it again in a heartbeat, for the torment was ecstasy rolled into one and she wanted it all. 

She had not known Ned Stark to be this rogue in their youth, but the years had made him wicked, or perhaps it had been Ashara herself who had pulled this from behind his solemn mask. Over and over he brought her to the very edge, tossing her about in a sea of flames, yet he knew her body well and denied her release until she was a trembling, begging mess tangled in their sheets. 

“Ned, oh Ned, _please…”_

And finally, he coaxed her over the precipice, and she did not know if she fell or soared, only that his hands gripped her to this world. She saw sparks behind her eyes, felt only Ned’s mouth against her, and it was glorious, _glorious..._ she shattered and heard her own cries echo back from the grey walls. 

Her body was limp for some heartbeats, but Ned did not give her time to recover. He sank into her then, both of them burning, the heat of him bright and hard. His movements were erratic—almost desperate as she had been—but nothing mattered save that he was inside her. Nothing mattered save that he desired her so. 

She wrapped her legs around him and thrust her hips up to meet him, grinding into him until he, too, broke apart above her, groaning her name as he spilled himself like liquid fire against her womb. 

In the flickering light of a single candle, Ashara lay across Ned’s chest, her fingers brushing through the wiry hair there, listening to the slowing beat of his heart. He seemed to have dozed for some time—or perhaps it was she who slept—the upheaval of the long day catching up to them. 

They were not so young anymore. The years had etched lines onto their faces, though deeper around their eyes than between their brows. Childbirth had left silvery marks on her skin and softened her breasts so they no longer sat so high. His muscles had toughened with time, lined with sinew, the skin not so taut as before and rougher beneath her hand. 

Oh, they are not old, perhaps, but she was not truly keeping an anxious count over the years. He had been carved into her very bones for more than half her life now, and she felt they had grown into each other like the weirwood tree in the godswood had entwined itself into the castle beneath their feet. Beyond time. Beyond age. He was in every breath she took, and every smile that came to her lips. 

Ashara shifted her weight as Ned seemed to stir, and she felt his seed between her legs, still slick and warm. He opened his eyes then, the firelight making his pupils glow soft grey. The corner of his mouth lifted. He reached up to curl a lock of her hair around his finger. 

“Gods, but you are perfect, Ash. Especially when I look at you like this.”

“Oh? After you’ve thoroughly debauched me, you mean?” 

His laugh rumbled pleasantly against her breasts, She pressed a kiss to the spot between his collarbones and smiled, but it broke into a yawn. He laughed again. 

“Go to sleep,” he said, his hand stroking through her hair. “You’ve been working all month for this visit.”

“Hmm, but you have not yet told me what the king said to you this afternoon,” she murmured, finding his chest the perfect pillow for her head. 

“I will,” he said, and his voice was like a brush of fur against her ear. “There is much to discuss, but it can wait. Sleep first.”

So she slept.

000

In the old stables, Ashara’s direwolf let out a soft howl, the sound drifting into their open window like the sweet middle notes of a flute. Ned leaned against the sill, listening for the squeaking reply of the pups, but Winterfell’s stone and water walls were solid against sound. If the pups were sleeping in the children’s rooms with the tapestries pulled over latched windows, they likely did not hear their mother, but even if they did, Ned would not hear their replies. 

The wolf mother had shown no displeasure at seeing her pups follow his children away from her. Throughout the day they would find her in the old stables, still healing from her antler wound, and feed from her, and let her lick them, and burrow into her fur. But when one of the children came calling, they would jump up and run at the sound of their new names, and the mother would simply nudge the pups along with her nose. 

The mother herself seemed in no rush to leave. Ashara came down to sit by her each day, despite her busy preparations, and sometimes Ned came into the old stables to see his wife stroking the beast between the ears while singing under her breath. 

She was strong enough to take short walks around her courtyard now, frightening both soldiers and horses half out of their wits, but Ned had issued orders that she be given a wide berth and left alone, and not once did she even bare her teeth. Soon, Ash told him, she would be well enough to go hunting in the woods around the castle. How she knew such things were beyond him. 

Ned had to admit that perhaps Ashara was right about the wolves. Some reason was compelling the mother to stay at Winterfell as she had ten years ago, and for all his efforts, he had not been able to keep the children away from the pups, who followed them around as if they really were little dogs. So be it then. Ned had long ago learned that when it came to his children, it was best not to try reining in their nature. 

The wind picked up outside, winding around him, crisp and fresh against the heat of Ashara’s rooms. 

In the past month, he had also heard whispers among the older guards and servants who had been at Winterfell for decades. A good omen was the wolf’s reappearance, they all agreed, as her first stay had been an omen of victory over the Ironborn and the coming of this long summer. Ned did not believe such things, but did nothing to discourage the whisperings, especially as all were convinced the good tidings were the gods approving of his wife. 

A great number of “good omens” had indeed fallen on the North in the years after his marriage—the direwolf, the meteor, the great increase in their populations and coffers. Some were Ashara’s doing, naturally—without her not nearly so many would have survived the winters with fingers, toes and lives intact, and it was her relations who helped build trade with Essos and better fleets through the North—but some, such as the meteor and their Ironborn victory, were mere happenstance. 

Yet, if his lords and smallfolk wished to credit Ashara with the North’s good fortunes these seventeen years gone, Ned saw no reason to discourage them. He had once worried that the North would not take to his southern-born wife, and the present outcome was one he had received with near-elated amazement. 

Dispelled, too, were his fears that Ashara would not take to his home. She had told him more than once that he had no reason to worry, and yet he had not truly believed her and harboured the secret fear for a whole year into their marriage. But she was tougher than her looks would suggest—as he should have known as soon as he’d seen her put her knives in those men in King’s Landing—and though the children teased their mother for being perpetually cold when out riding, his wife had adapted to the North as if she had been born to it. 

“I have you with me,” she had said of the matter airly, but Ned had heard the truth in her voice. “I can brave anything and carry on so long as I have you with me. The cold is nothing.” 

The wolf howled again, a lone melody in the chill night, and behind him, Ned heard his wife shift amid the quilts. He turned to see her sitting up amid the pillows, the furs pulled up to cover half her chin, her eyes like amethysts glittering in the soft candlelight. 

“If you must open the windows, you could at least have the decency to come back and keep me warm.” 

He chuckled but complied, gathering her into him, and she sighed, sinking into his arms. 

It was several long moments before Ned spoke.

“I did not refuse him directly. He did not give me the chance.” She peered up at him. “But I will. I told him I had to discuss matters with you, but in a few days, I will tell him no.”

“Good,” she said, though she worried her lip. 

“What is it?”

“’Tis only…can you just say no? I have given it thought this past moonturn, and now I fear your refusal may plant seeds of doubt in his mind.”

“Doubt? About what?”

“Your loyalty. Your motives.” She levelled him a long look until she was sure he understood that she referred to Jon, and he felt himself wince. “If you refuse, he will no doubt wonder why and wish to dig for answers. Have you not said you cannot have Robert notice any oddities?”

Ned shook his head. No, surely not.

“Robert would not doubt me, not for this. We were closer than brothers. He loves me. If I refuse him, he will roar and curse and bluster, and in a week we will laugh about it together. I know the man!”

Her mouth twisted.

“You knew the man. Can you truly say you know the king who rode into our bailey this day? There was a moment you did not even recognise him. I saw it in your eyes. Seventeen years in which one is denied nothing will change any man, and Robert has always seemed the kind to be exceedingly susceptible.”

He stared at her, bewildered.

“So you believe I should take the offer?”

“Of course not.”

“Then…”

She groaned in frustration and turned into his chest.

“I do not know, Ned. Of course you must not go, but you cannot tell him outright. Perhaps there is a way to put it in his head that one of his brothers is a better choice, but for the life of me I have not yet thought of it.”

Ned sighed, weariness washing over him like the tide. The idea of playing these games once more around Robert dropped a leaden ball of dread in his gut, yet Ashara’s next words sent a deeper pain through him.

“And what did the king say of Jon Arryn?” she asked, voice soft. 

Ned closed his eyes against the empty, cold space that had opened up in him since he had heard the news. 

“He did say it was all very sudden,” Ned answered slowly. “Robert held a tourney for Prince Joffrey’s name day, and Jon seemed at the pinnacle of health then. Yet two weeks later, he was dead, burned away by fever. A disease of the guts and stomach, the maesters say. Perhaps an infection of some sort. ”

Ashara’s had gone very still, eyes fixed on a spot on the quilts, and Ned looked down at her. 

“What’s wrong?”

For some moments she was silent, but finally she shook her head and the tension left her body.

“Nothing,” she murmured, though her brow was still knit.

“Ashara?”

She met his eyes then and gave him a sad smile. 

“I am so, so sorry. It must still hurt, his loss. You had not seen him so many years besides, and I know you miss him dearly.”

Her warmth was like a balm, and he covered the hand she had laid on his arm. 

He wished not to talk of misfortune, not to talk of the perplexing hardships set in their path, yet there was more news still.

“That is not all,” he said. “Robert said…he wishes to join our houses. He wants to betroth Arya to Prince Joff—.”

“Absolutely not!" she gasped, cutting him off. 

She pushed himself up on her elbow then to gape down at him, eyes huge. 

"Gods, I had thought the queen was behaving strangely, showing such interest in Arya. Absolutely not, Ned.” 

For a moment her vehemence surprised him, and he raised his eyebrows in question. Then her fingers were a vice on his forearm, and he realised he was being simple-minded, for of course, the very notion would upset her.

"I watched a girl I loved with all my heart marry a prince and die for it," she said, her voice a hoarse whisper, her gaze frozen to his.

"You did too, did you not?"

Her eyes were endless pools of violet, like the black pools in the godswood, deep enough to fall into. Ned felt a chill accompany the familiar bite of grief, already so close to the surface from his trip down to the crypts.

Lyanna. And Elia.

"Ned, no daughter of mine is going to marry a prince. I forbid it.” 

He cupped her cheek in his hand, a show of understanding, and nodded his agreement, closing his eyes to shut away the old ache. She was not done, however.

“If nothing else,” she said, “Prince Joffrey himself is beyond objectionable.” 

He opened his mouth to protest, for perhaps he was arrogant and took too closely after his Lannister relations, but he was still Robert’s son. 

She held up her hand. “You did not see how he was looking at Sansa all evening. I wished to gouge his eyes out, and so did Arya and Robb, by the looks of it.”

Ned felt his protective anger flare, and he stiffened. How had he missed that? Still, that certainly sounded like Robert in his youth, and he told her so. She narrowed her eyes at him.

“’Tis not the same. I will not argue with you, because our daughter is not a simpering fool, but you will see it for yourself soon. The boy’s presence chills me. Robert will betroth my daughter to Joffrey over my dead body.”

“Oh, Ash, it will not come to that. It was only a suggestion,” said Ned, and he hoped he was right—that his best friend had not changed from the man he once knew.

"Good," she nodded, tucking herself into the crook of his shoulder again. “Good.” She tilted her head, considering, her face softening out of her agitation. 

“Besides, the queen has met Arya this evening. And asked our daughter about her pastimes.

"Oh."

She gave him a sideways look. 

“Precisely. You needn’t worry about refusing him this, I think. No doubt Cersei Lannister would rather burn down the Red Keep before she lets Arya marry her precious son."

They both sighed, and for a long while they lay with their thoughts. Ashara was no doubt plotting how they would convince Robert to withdraw his offer of Handship, but Ned simply could not believe it would come to this. Surely, if he just explained that his duties were up here in the North, that his own kingdom needed him here, that he was not suited—

A knock came at their chamber door, loud and unexpected, startling them both. Ned turned, frowning.

“What is it?”

It was the guard Desmond who answered. 

“Ser Brynden's returned, milord. He has just ridden through the gates, and begs an urgent audience.”

Brynden Tully. Back from seeing to Jon Arryn’s widow in the Eyrie. 

Ashara sat bolt upright in the bed, brows knotted, and shivered in her nakedness. Ned pulled the furs around her as they exchanged a look, and she tilted her head towards her library turret.

“Send him up here then,” called Ned, and Desmond was off in a patter of footsteps. 

He got up from the bed then to retrieve both their dressing gowns, and they dressed in a tense silence. 

“It is past midnight,” Ashara finally said, her voice low. “I think Ser Bryden did not ride back through the cold dark for the pleasure of our company.”

“No,” answered Ned, walking again to the window. Outside, the direwolf howled once more, but this time there was a desolate taint to the sound that sent a foreboding chill down his back. 

“No, he did not.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina) are actually amazing and I legit would not have half the ideas I do in this fic if it weren't for them. So. Thanks guys. 
> 
>   
> I've changed the dates of summer and winter a bit to suit my narrative better. Here winter lasted (after the False Spring) until 285, a short summer from 285 to 287, a short winter from 287 to 290, and then summer from 290 until now (300).
> 
> I do hope the smutty scene makes up for all the backstory and political dialogue I've filled this chapter with. Sorry if you were bored. Things will start actively happening soon.
> 
> Also, PSA: Just because Ashara has these feelings on sex and love and her body does not mean everyone should have the same feelings, you know? Not everyone is into soul-melding, highly codependent love, and that's totally fine. At this point, I could write a whole essay on why Ash is this way. Not everyone is.


	21. Word of the Fish

Brynden Tully still carried the night chill about him as he swept into Ashara’s library turret, bowing briskly before Ned offered him a seat. His hair was stiff so that it appeared frozen, and his lips seemed to disappear into his face from the cold. 

Ashara poured water from the clay pitcher that hung over their fireplace embers at night, and Brynden nodded gratefully, but he did not keep them waiting on his purpose. The Blackfish had even less use for small talk and pleasantries than Ned did. When he had downed the contents of the pewter mug, he levelled a long, grim look at them both. 

“Lady Arryn has related a grave tale,” he said. “She tells me that Jon Arryn was murdered, and it was the Lannister queen who slipped in the poison.”

At once, Ned felt his chair had sprouted icy roots that crept up his back and bound him in place. Yet in a moment, reason returned. 

“You believe this story, Ser Brynden? Lady Arryn—surely she is sick with grief. She cannot know what she is saying.”

Brynden’s leathery brow creased along its deep lines. He sighed and shook his head. 

“There is much I cannot know for certain. She seemed sure of her words. Yet, I cannot deny that the woman who received me in the Vale was not the girl I knew at Riverrun. She is most changed, and I do not know if it is from grief or the years—”

His voice died in his throat as Ashara bolted to her feet beside Ned, nearly toppling her chair. There was a terrible look of distress about her eyes, and her breath was rough and erratic.

“Ashara?” Alarmed, Ned made to rise, but she shook her head. 

“No, I…I beg your pardon ser, I must…”

As if possessed, she dashed past them and up the stairs leading to the upper level of her library, her footsteps uneven on rough stone. Ned could not keep the frown from his face but turned back to the Blackfish. 

“Has she proof?”

“Nothing solid.”

“If she has no proof, how can she be so sure?”

Brynden shook his head again. 

“If I speak plain, you were right that she was sick with grief. Mad with it, even. But she was adamant that the Lannisters had poisoned Jon—would not let go of my arm until I had promised to relay the news to you.”

“To me? But she does not know me.”

Brynden gave him a wry smile. 

“Oh, she remembers you well enough from your days at Riverrun.” Ned felt the old pang of guilt but pushed it down. “She half begged me to tell you. ‘Eddard Stark must know,’ she kept saying to me, ‘Eddard Stark must be told, Uncle.’”

“What use does she have of my knowing?”

Brynden shrugged. 

“She did not say. As I tell you, she…” he heaved a great sigh. “She is much changed. My brother did her a great wrong in her youth, and I am afraid that since then, she has not been…right.”

“Then surely her words…it seems an incredible story, Brynden. Even the Grand Maester ruled Jon’s death as an infection.”

“But what if it was not?” It was Ashara who broke in. She stood at the base of the stone stairs, eyes bright with determined certainty. In her hands, she clutched a small gilded book, and she beckoned them over to the desk beneath the thin window. 

“An infection, I mean. See here,” she said as Ned and Brynden approached her, opening the book to the page where her finger kept place. The book was bound in vellum, but the gold-lined pages within were made of the reedy paper used across the Narrow Sea. It took Ned a moment to recognise the High Valyrian, though he could remember only choice words. Brynden saw it too, and offered a dry chuckle. 

“You’d best translate, Lady Ash. The maester never could stuff High Valyrian into my head.”

“This is a book of tonics and poisons from Essos,” she said. “It includes general ingredients and instructions for each brew, appearances, symptoms and effects, and a brief history of known use. Here is the page for the brew known as Tears of Lys, a rare and expensive poison.” Her finger traced over the words, her fair skin stark against the yellowing pages and fading ink. 

“ _Churning and sharp, burning pain in the stomach and intestines; fever; chills. Victim shows signs of stomach and intestinal infection. Death arrives in days._ Does this not sound exactly as King Robert described Jon Arryn’s symptoms, Ned?”

Now the chill returned tenfold, creeping vines slithering up his spine, drawing beads of cold sweat to the back of his neck. _Poison. Jon was poisoned._

“How in seven hells do you have a book like this?” asked Brynden, looking at Ashara with a newfound alarm. Ned looked up too. Ashara had a great array of books in this personal library, accumulated over the years or brought from her rooms at Starfall. She usually allowed the children—mostly Arthur and Sam—to access it whenever they wished, but she had always insisted they show her the title before they took anything, and now Ned understood why. 

“Prince Oberyn Martell gave it to me. He travelled in Essos for many years of his youth. He knew I liked old and rare books and thought this… _ahem_ , might be of interest.”

The Blackfish still looked half appalled. The knight had softened to Ashara over the years and often remarked what a sweet-natured and kindly wife Ned had been blessed with. Still, Ned did not know why he should be surprised his wife would own such a book. Did he not know she read any book she could get her hands on? Did he believe Ashara was studying the Seven-Pointed Star when he inevitably saw her reading all around the castle when she had a moment to spare?

“I think we can be fairly certain that Jon Arryn died from poison,” Ashara said softly now, looking up at them both. “But Ser Brynden, do you think Lady Arryn truly has the right of it? That it was the Lannisters?”

Brynden shook his head and repeated his earlier words, and Ashara put down the book to pace the small room. 

“Nonetheless,” she said, wringing her hands, “Lady Arryn must have had her reasons for believing it. Did she not tell them to you?”

Brynden paused.

“Not directly, though she is not the only one who suspects poison. Many of the Vale lords believe the manner of Jon Arryn’s death strange, though I have not heard the Lannister name from them. Lysa did say, though, that Jon Arryn had intended to foster young Robert at Casterly Rock.” 

Ashara stopped and narrowed her eyes.

“If they did murder Jon, with his son at Casterly Rock, they would have total control over the future Lord of the Vale. Mould him however they wanted. They could even find someone of their persuasion to marry Lady Lysa, and gain control through her.”

Ned frowned. 

“But why would the Lannister care about the Vale? It does not border them, and they have to know the Vale lords would be a difficult lot to corrupt with their gold.”

“Hmm, why indeed? That cannot be the reason, then,” she said, continuing her pacing. “What else did the king tell you this afternoon?”

But it was Brynden Tully’s fist on the table that answered her.

“Hells, it’s nearly escaped my mind. The Vale lords are all simmering, angry because the king has not seen fit to bestow Lord Robin with the title Warden of the East.”

Ashara’s eyebrows shot up. 

“Did the king truly do this? Did he tell you, Ned?”

“Well, yes.” Now she looked at Ned with that faint expression he recognised to mean, ‘And you did not think this worthwhile information to tell me?’

Ned spread his hands. 

“The king was set on the choice. I tried to dissuade him, but he quickly moved on to more pressing matters.”

“Did he tell you whom he will name instead?” Ned shook his head. 

“Are there whisperings in the Vale, Ser Brynden? It is all well and good if he names a Royce or a Corbray, but I fear…”

“Oh, people are always whispering, Lady Ash, but no one knows a thing. They all grumble though, for it will cause an uproar in the Vale no matter what the king decides.”

Ashara worried her lip, stilling again from her pacing. She closed her eyes for a moment. 

“Perhaps ’tis another reason for the Lannisters to wish Jon Arryn dead.” She looked uncertain but carried on. “So that they might push the king into naming Jaime Lannister Warden of the East. I know the title is but an honour in peacetime, but perhaps Tywin Lannister would jump at such an acquisition for his son.”

Brynden seemed to balk. “Enough to murder a man? What, is Lannister planning to overthrow the king? Why else would he want so desperately to hold half the armies in the kingdom? To want it enough that he’d murder the Hand?”

Ashara sighed and dropped into a chair. 

“No, you are right, of course. Surely that is not why,” she conceded. “Though I fear the king will give Jaime Lannister the honour now that Jon Arryn is dead.” 

She shook her head. 

“I cannot think of another reason the Lannisters might want Jon Arryn gone, and yet I am most certain now that he was poisoned,” she said. She looked up at him then, her eyes glittering with worry and regret. 

“What is it?” he asked when she did not speak. Her brow knotted. 

It was Brynden who spoke.

“Well, Ned. The king’s asked you to be his Hand, hasn’t he?”

Ned looked over at him in alarm. How…

“Oh, don’t look at me like that. Why else would he come up here trailing half his court with him? To have a picnic?”

“I—yes, he did ask.”

“Well, I think what Lady Ash wants to say is that you need to take the post!”

“What? No, I cannot! I cannot be in that adders’ nest of a city.”

Taken aback completely, Ned turned his wide eyes to his wife. She shook her head and put her head in her palm.

“I do not think you should. Gods help me, I certainly do not want you to take it. But...Robert has poisoners around him. Perhaps that poisoner shares his bed. I cannot deny that the Hand of the King holds great power, Ned. Power to learn the truth. Power enough to protect Robert.” Her eyes flicked to Brynden for a moment. “Power enough to protect Lady Arryn and her son.”

He understood. She was right. Damnation, why was she so right about it all? And though Ned trusted Brynden Tully with his life, there was no denying that the man would wish him to take the post. For the sake of his remaining niece and her boy. By all reckoning, Robert Arryn was his nephew, was he not, no matter that Lady Catelyn was dead and gone these many years? Damnation. 

He swore aloud and dropped into the chair beside his wife. He could feel her bright gaze on him, not to mention Brynden Tully’s intent eyes, but he kept his head buried in his hands. 

“You do not have to go, Ned,” came Ashara’s soft voice. “The choice is still yours to make. You do not have to go.”

But was there still a choice? Between honour and cowardice, perhaps. 

“My father went south once, to answer the summons of a king. He never came home again."

“A different king,” said Brynden. “This one—we both put him on the throne.”

“Yes,” Ned heard himself say. His throat tight, he rose and walked to the window, peering out into the moonlit night. The very thought of King’s Landing left a sour taste on his tongue, and again he saw before him the mangled bodies on the marble floor, the crimson of blood and Lannister red stinging his eyes. He never wanted to enter that accursed city again. He belonged up here, with the wind and snow and the people of the North. He belonged here with his family and his men. 

His father, Brandon, Lyanna…all had died when they rode south. Starks did not fare well past the Neck. His father roasting in his armour; Brandon’s face turning black as death; Lyanna lying in her blood-stained bed, smoke and blood burning his nose, her voice desperately pleading…

And yet.

“Yes,” he said again, turning back to face the room.

“Ser Brynden, you must stay at Winterfell. You are most needed here. Please, give my son council. He will need it.”

Brynden nodded. Ashara stood, her face chalk white and pained. 

“Well,” she finally said, her voice like dust. “Thank you for coming to us so urgently with the news, Ser Brynden. There will be much to prepare.”

Brynden left the library. Back in their chambers, Ned turned back to his wife. She had settled herself on the bed, half-dazed as she stared at a spot on the wall.

He felt his chest close painfully, and he frowned against the sudden pang. 

“I do not wish to go,” he said, his voice barely a whisper. She reached blindly for him, and their hands found each other on the quilts.

“I do not wish you to go.”

Ned sighed.

“Ashara, the thought of leaving the North, of leaving you here—”

She bolted upright then, making him jump, and when she looked at him it was as if he had begun juggling on the spot. 

“What did you say?”

“What did—”

“The thought of leaving me here? Ned, are you mad?”

“I—what?”

“I am coming with you! How could you think I would do otherwise?”

It was his turn to gape at her. 

“But—you—the children—”

She bit her lip but did not turn away.

“All I know at this moment, Ned Stark, is that if you go alone, you won’t survive that accursed city. I am coming with you.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

Her children would be leaving her, and Ashara wished to curl up in her bed and shut out the world. 

In the early hours of the next morning, amid their furs and quilts, she and Ned determined where each of the children would be when they moved their household to King’s Landing. She had been reluctant to even speak on the matter—not so soon after she had accepted she would now spend years back in that vile, suffocating place, flitting about at court amongst the people who hid their faces behind so much mummery and silk. 

Yet part of her wished her babes would come with her all the same, a thought so impossible it bordered on the absurd, yet nonetheless fluttered hopefully in her mind. She remembered that year Sansa had been with Dev in Starfall, and felt her heart sink into her stomach. How was she to survive these next years?

Robb would naturally stay North and rule Winterfell in his father’s place. And Jon, naturally, would be with him. 

“It will be good for them both,” Ned had told her. “They will work thus the rest of their lives. It will be a good start.”

“I am hardly worried Robb will lack for counsel or Jon will not provide it,” she said, staring at the canopy. “It’s only...Oh, they are so young, Ned. Still boys, in truth, and Robb will have the final say in all things.” 

Theon and Sam would naturally both be staying as well. Theon would be at Winterfell until Balon Greyjoy died, and Sam...poor boy. Randyll Tarly did not summon him home to learn the ways of running Horn Hill, and Sam’s letters to his father that he be allowed to spend some years at the Citadel never received replies. Sam was surely due for a visit home, but Lord Tarly was still in his prime. Sam would not be needed back home for many years yet, and would no doubt return to Winterfell soon enough.

No, Robb would not want for council, but the thought of the four boys putting their minds together without Ned’s tempering influence—that worried her more than she could say, even with the presence of Ser Brynden and Maester Luwin. 

“Not so young. You must trust we have taught them well. They are men grown, Ash. Seventeen…I was but eighteen at Harrenhal, and nineteen when I led an army to avenge my father and brother. At seventeen, you were already living in court intrigue.”

“And we were young then! Naive and impulsive and far too sure of ourselves. Full of illusions about the world. It was only war and what came after that made us hard and weary.”

“You had killed two men by seventeen,” he said very quietly, taking her hand before she flinched. “Do not think I’ve forgotten.”

She bit her lip, eyes fixed on their joined hands, but had no words. She had spoken true, but she alone could not keep the world at bay forever. They must learn for themselves, and she could only hope Ned was right. 

“Winter is coming, Ashara. They cannot be children forever.”

She let out a shaking breath, her brows twisting. She squeezed her eyes shut and turned into his chest. 

“Damn your Stark honour, and damn your winter,” she said, her voice so low she did not know if he heard. Oh, how the bleeding half of her wished she had held her tongue about the poison! How she wished she had never tried to counsel him on this at all, and simply let him refuse Robert as he would. 

Yet she knew herself. She could never have done such a thing—lie to him so and keep her thoughts hidden from him. And as soon as she had said the word ‘poison’ and showed him the book, this was where his honour would lead her. Back to that city of her nightmares. It was her fault, more than it was his. Yet what else could she have done?

Next, they spoke of Sansa, and the helpless ache throbbed in her chest. She and Dev had intended that Sansa live at Starfall when she was nine—had intended that she grow up there, knowing the land and people and the ways of the Daynes. In the early years of this long summer, she and Ned had taken their family to Dorne, and when they returned, Sansa had not come back with them. 

But Ashara should have known she could not stomach leaving her sweet, gentle girl, and for all that Dev and Allyria tried to make Sansa feel at home, some months in, Dev had written to her of Sansa’s quiet unhappiness. 

_‘Your daughter grows thin and melancholy. Sometimes, when I see her wandering the gardens alone, I see you in my mind, seven-years-old and lost after our mother passed and Arthur left for the capital. I will not fault you if you instruct me to send her home to you.’_

So she did, and she tried desperately not to remember that nothing had changed, despite her daughter’s unhappiness. Sansa had flown from the ship and into her arms at White Harbour, pleading with her to make someone else the heir to Starfall, and Ashara had felt her heart shatter. But yet again, what could she do? 

Dev could not marry now—he could barely spend an hour on his feet without the air constricting in his throat—and what other remedy could there be, save that she keep Sansa with her for as long as she could? And now...now that Sansa was of age, and she and Ned headed to the capital...

Sansa would travel with them, and once they settled in, she would send her to Starfall once more. Sansa would make her new home there. It was time. There could be no more delay. If she would rule the Dayne lands, she must learn their ways, and learn the mountains and river as Ashara once had. She must make herself known to the people, and Dev must teach her all he could before—another matter she wished not to dwell on. 

And Sansa knew her duty—after that day in White Harbour, Sansa never again asked to shirk her future role—though seeing her fortitude gave Ashara more helpless pain than pride. Sansa told her siblings that she had named her wolf pup Lemons for the colour of her eyes, but Ashara knew better and saw in the name her daughter’s quiet determination. 

When she had asked Sansa, after her return, if there was anything at all she had liked of Starfall, her daughter had chewed her lip, her child’s mind torn between truth and obligation. Finally, she had said, 

“The lemons there are sublime.” 

Ashara had spent that evening weeping into Ned’s chest. 

Arya, too, would be headed to Dorne. Despite her words to the queen last night, Ashara knew that it would not be easy to find Arya a future that did not suffocate her fire, especially in the North. Most houses were not the Mormonts. The best chance to find such a place for her was in Dorne. She would write to Oberyn. Her daughter would go to live with those delightful girls of his in Sunspear, and perhaps learn that she need not always be ready with a thorny shell to defend against the constraints of the world. 

And so she would lose all her children save for the twins, yet naturally, the thought of bringing Arthur and—gods help them all—Elia to King’s Landing made her queasy. 

“It will be for the best,” Ned had tried to soothe her when she felt the blood drain from her face. “It can only do our family good to have the twins grow up with the royal children. For them to grow as close as Robert and I were. No matter what the Lannisters have or have not done.”

“I cannot argue, but Elia? In King’s Landing? She is even less suited to the place than her namesake, and I...I am so afraid, Ned.”

“You will be there. You and me and our household guards. We will keep our children safe. And we cannot subject Winterfell to Elia’s antics if we are not here.” 

She laughed despite herself.

“No, there wouldn’t be a castle to come back to if we did. At least the capital will be good for Arthur.” Ned had not agreed to Arthur’s maester ambitions outright, but it would do him good to see more of the world, no matter the danger. 

So it was settled. So, within a day, her life was to fragment into parts and be tossed about in the air. And as much as Ashara tried to believe it was all for the best—that surely nothing could go terribly wrong—she could not help the churning unease that had settled deep in her gut, refusing to calm. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter. I actually wanted to attach this to the previous one, but that one was getting too long. Arya next, though :)


	22. Spoils of the Hunt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a warning: This will be from Arya’s POV. She is 15. Theon will also make an appearance. He is 18. If this makes you uncomfortable, I’m sorry. It won’t happen often. Skip to the second half? 
> 
> Also, if it wasn’t clear, my plot moves pretty slowly. I did write a fourteen chapter prologue when I could have fit it all into two chapters. My writing is dense, and I’m much more into exploring character mentality and how little changes butterfly into complete overhauls of the game.  
> If you’re not into what I’m writing, please just move on. No one is forcing it down your throat. Please don’t comment saying unkind things to me if you’re not going to provide anything constructive. It just makes me really sad, even if the negative comment seems ridiculous to me, and then I don’t feel like writing for hours.

_Some Days Later_

The air in the loft above the firewood storehouse was crisp and biting. Arya preferred it this way, for she was never cold. She had found this alcove of sorts at the far end of the storehouse when she played Hide-the-treasure as a child, for no one ever thought to look where the firewood was stacked. 

She had stopped using it as a hiding place after a few successful wins. The game was no fun if she won every time. 

On the old blankets, Arya stretched out like a cat. She would be sore on the morrow, for she had been busy with helping Sansa look over the household numbers in the past weeks, and had not had the time for more leisurely pursuits. After the king’s arrival, her mother had bid her and Lia go sit with Sansa and the other girls while they did needlework, and today had been the first time she had managed to slip away. 

The princess was there with Septa Dyna, their mother had said, and often the queen and her ladies would join. It was only proper that they keep the queen company when she herself was too busy with household business. 

When they had gaped at their mother, both horrified, she had only raised a perfect eyebrow at them both. 

“It will not be so terrible. Arya, I’m certain the queen would love to hear of your training, and Elia, surely you would want to ask the queen about the horses she had at Casterly Rock. I’m not asking for an embroidered garden. Just take your smallclothes to mend.” She had narrowed her eyes at Lia then.

“Elia, I know you don’t like sitting still, but Arthur tells me you couldn’t even mend his shirt? Even your father knows how to do some basic needlework. What do you think they did when their clothes tore on campaign? Ride into battle with gaping holes in their shirts?”

Lia’s eyes had gone wide. 

“Then Arthur can mend his own miserable shirts!” she had retorted, her voice climbing with indignation, but Arya knew better. Even she could see that the queen most certainly would not like to hear of her training. So, it appeared _Amma_ wished to irk this Cersei Lannister. That Arya could do.

And so, this afternoon, she had sat fortifying the seams of her leather jerkin with her sisters and the queen, keeping up a lively conversation with Lia about her efforts in teaching her horse Porridge to jump the low fences in the fields around Winterfell. Lia did not particularly enjoy swordplay and archery as Arya did, much preferring to sail and ride, but even this talk of jumping had been turning the queen’s face progressively darker.

It was just as Lia was laughing at the way Porridge always flared her nose when she was about to refuse a jump when, from the corner of her eye, Arya spotted the rat. It poked its head out behind the open chamber door, pink nose twitching, oily fur agleam. It was huge, and for a moment she wondered if there was a way to lure it over to them. The afternoon had grown rather dull, what with Sept Dyna’s constant, simpering praise of the princess, and they were all due for some excitement. 

Then she looked down at her hand. The leather needle she was using was long and weighty. Perfect. Trying to keep in her laughter, she slowly unthreaded the waxed cotton. Then, giving a little cough so half the room instinctively looked up at her, she threw the needle into the rat. 

The sound of metal piercing wood made the others lift their heads as well. For a moment, all was silent, and then Jeyne Poole let out a blood-curdling scream just as Lia howled with laughter. She had pinned the rat into the floor at the base of the wall. For some moments it twitched, but stilled soon enough. The queen’s ladies were whispering amongst themselves, and across the room, Jeyne was heaving breath, Sansa stroking her back. Her sister shot her an exasperated look, but Arya just shrugged. She ignored, too, the indignant scolding of Septa Dyna.

A look over at the queen showed Arya that the woman’s face had turned positively purple. Excellent result.

Arya stood, dusting invisible fluff off her lap. She would have loved to tell Nymeria to fetch the rat back for her, but their wolves were all down in the old stables with their mother. The queen had insisted that the pups would scare the princess—no matter that Myrcella seemed desperate to pet Lemons—and so Arya had gone over to the rat, plucked it off the floor, and, holding it swinging by the tail, made her deepest curtsey to the room. 

“If you’ll excuse me, Your Grace, I’d take the spoils of the hunt to the furrier.”

When she had come out of old stables after tossing the rat to Mouse and Nymeria—Lemons did not seem particularly interested, which...of course she didn’t—Arya had come around to the courtyard to find her brothers and Theon heading to the bathhouse, Grey Wind yapping around Robb’s ankles while Ghost perched on Jon’s shoulder. 

“Back from your ride?” she asked. “I trust the princes were good company?” All three looked rather vexed. 

“I think I’d have rather been sewing with you and the queen,” muttered Robb. “At least the queen and her ladies are nice to look at.” 

“Really?” said Arya. “But Joffrey’s rather pretty too, don’t you think?” 

Theon snickered and Jon smiled. Robb raised an eyebrow. “Don’t let the queen hear you. She’ll think you want to marry him.”

More laughter, but Arya felt her eyes grow wide. So _that_ was why the queen had seemed so interested in her, and why _Amma_ had put her up to being a nuisance. Arya shuddered. The queen had wanted her to marry Joffrey? Gods, she was going to be sick, and that didn’t even take into account the way he had stared at Sansa. 

“Well, good luck washing the Lannister off you,” she said, sending them on their way. Then,

“I’ve skived off my needlework duties for the rest of the morning. I think I shall go take a nap.”

That had been clear enough a message, she’d thought, and made her way to the firewood stores. Sure enough, Theon had joined her there in a quarter of an hour, his hair still wet from his bath. Neither of them had gone into the castle for the midday meal.

Now Arya stretched again, flipping over onto her stomach, and Theon’s hand came to rest on the small of her back. His palm was very warm on her skin. She looked over at him from the corner of her eye, and he offered a half-grin. 

“Damn, what am I going to do when you go to King’s Landing?”

She raised an eyebrow. 

“Carry on as you’ve been doing? Can’t imagine you’ll be lacking in female company.”

Theon chuckled. Arya thought he looked rather handsome like that, his teeth white, a tiny dimple on his right cheek. 

“Maybe, but there’s no one like you.”

It was Arya’s turn to laugh. 

“Well clearly not, but you needn’t flatter me. You’ve already divested me of my gown.”

“It’s not flattery if it’s true.”

His hand slid lower and squeezed. Her belly gave a pleasant turn, and she made a little sound in the back of her throat. He chuckled again. 

“And poor you. The south will be poor pickings indeed if Joffrey’s any indication.”

“That bad, huh? What precisely did he do?”

Theon rolled his eyes and sighed. 

“Insisted we let him lead every jump, talked without end about how many boars he’s killed and how many knights he’s unhorsed, made sure we all remembered every fucking second that he was the royal prince. Hells, I wanted to lop my own ears off.”

“So, an arrogant arse who talks entirely too much. Sounds familiar.”

In one motion he had turned her over and pinned her to the blankets, a dangerous glint in his eye. Arya felt that pleasant flutter again, hot and hungry in her belly. 

“Very soon you’ll wish you’d been kinder to me, Arya Stark. I doubt you’ll find anyone down south who can make you scream as I can.”

She smirked. 

“Don’t be so sure. Wylla told me all the handsomest men she’s ever seen were in King’s Landing. I may forget all about you soon.”

“Is that so? Stand by those words, do you?”

His hand crept between her legs and did something incredibly fiendish with his fingers. Just a touch, and he withdrew his hand when she pressed up to him despite herself. 

“I…well…oh, damn you.”

She bit her lip and glared up at him. He chuckled. 

“What were you saying about the men in King’s Landing?”

"Careful, Theon Greyjoy, or I might accidentally let it slip to one of my brothers what we’ve been doing of late."

“So long as it’s not Arthur. Who knows what tortures he’s read about of late.”

Arya laughed and suddenly pushed against his shoulder so that she was the one pinning him into the blankets. He smirked up at her.

"Besides, you wouldn’t."

She narrowed her eyes at him. Damn him and his cocky surety, and damn her for letting it make her skin burn from the inside.

"Maybe not at present," she conceded, straightening up as she straddled his stomach. His very hard stomach. She felt his eyes on her chest, and the thrill of it made her squirm. She was wet between the legs again and knew he felt it on his skin when she moved. He sucked in a breath between his teeth.

“Still, I’d be careful if I were you,” she said shifting her weight down his torso. “If you keep telling me what I won’t do, I might start seeing it as a challenge.”

**000**

Arya had not intended to fall into bed with Theon Greyjoy. Just as she had not intended to bed with any of the boys who had come before him. She did as she liked, and things simply happened. Theon had told her more than once that she was the one who seduced him— _I don’t have a death wish, you know, but gods help me, when you smile like that I can only think with my cock—_ but Arya was fairly certain she hadn’t done any such thing. 

Did she perhaps stare at him more than was usual in the practice yard, and perhaps give him teasing half-smiles when she was sure no one was watching? Well, yes, _perhaps_. But seduce him? Arya did not think she was capable of seducing anyone. 

She was not blind. Sansa was the beautiful one, beautiful like their mother. She had gotten _Amma’s_ high cheekbones, dimpled smile, and graceful, womanly form. When Sansa walked through the castle or the town, everybody stared, not to mention that her sister was soft-spoken and talented and a perfect lady besides.

Arya was...simply not. Nor could she charm and read people and put them at ease with two words and the incline of a head. Sansa had learned it all effortlessly from their mother. Arya had never imagined the word ‘charming’ applying to anything she did. 

But it didn’t bother her, not normally. She could ride better, fight better, and keep household accounts better than Sansa. She had very little interest in harps or poetry, and even less for making sure her hair was arranged just so. _Amma_ always told Arya that she and Sansa were like night and day, and there had always been pride in her voice when she said it. It didn’t matter, then, that visiting lords and ladies gaped at her in trousers and whispered behind their hands that she would never find a husband. What good was a husband if he would make her do all the ladylike things she hated? She’s sooner go join the Silent Sisters. 

She knew, too, that her own face was solemn and unremarkable—when she was younger, she could tuck her hair up and put on trousers, and strangers would think she was a boy—but Arya was not made for romance and bard’s tales and having men swoon at her feet. She did not want any of it. Love in that way made a woman weak, even women like her mother. 

She could still remember being four years old and sneaking into _Amma_ ’s chambers one night. Father had been off fighting the Ironborn then, and _Amma_ had not yet brought home the direwolf. She had slipped through the crack in the door to find her mother crying in her empty bed, her sobs muffled by the sheets. 

Arya had frozen stiff, and then, very slowly, backed out into the hallway. She had never heard her mother crying ever again, but the sound still haunted her sometimes, especially when she looked at the way her parents smiled at one another or watched as her mother coloured when Father kissed her hand. It may be sweet to love a person in that way—Sansa was certainly convinced it was—but Arya could never let herself be at the mercy of such emotions and the whims of a man. She would rather be free and strong. 

Most people might say it was wrong for a girl to behave so, but that was all the more reason to insist upon it. 

Yet that did not mean she could not enjoy herself. Despite how unfair most of the world was, there were advantages to being a girl and having breasts, even if they were small, and she was not beautiful. She had been kissing boys for years now, and Arya loved the way it felt—well, when they got it right, anyway. And when she discovered she could make boys weak at the knees and silky-hard with some well-placed nips and mere strokes of her hand, she had loved that feeling too. 

And of all the boys she had kissed and later bedded, Theon had gotten it more right than any. Arya could not remember when she had stopped seeing him as she saw Sam, but one day she had found herself flushing when he grinned that self-satisfied grin, gawping at his taut muscled arms under his shirt. She hadn’t really thought anything could come of it—surely, if he was going to notice her, he’d have done so much earlier and done something about it—but somehow, not long after, he had come out riding with her and kissed her against a tree. 

Now here they were. Sometimes it was a little frightening that Arya could not get enough of the feel of him inside her. Or his tongue on her. (Oh, gods help her, that was _delicious.)_ But she had no intention of stopping their assignations until it was time to leave Winterfell. Why not have her fill of pleasure when she could? And besides. She liked the way being with him made her feel afterwards, too, for he did give the best compliments on her person, even if she was sure half of it was flattering drivel. 

“We should show ourselves soon,” Arya said sometime later and pushed away from Theon’s chest. “They’ll have started sword practice, and I haven’t gotten a chance to see the princes spar yet.”

Theon sighed, but rolled to his feet, tossing her shift to her and pulling on his trousers. They shook out the blankets and hung them on the rafters, and then Arya slipped her gown on, turning around and lifting her hair so Theon could help her lace them up her back. 

“Doesn’t need to be a tapestry,” she said when he was taking too long. “I’m going up to change into trousers anyway.”

Theon chuckled, and his hot breath on her neck made Arya shiver. 

“I know. Still not exactly used to doing _up_ laces. I can’t wait to see the Lannister men’s faces when you show up, though.”

“I can’t wait to hold a sword to Joffrey’s throat.”

“I doubt you will—” said Theon, then gripped her shoulder to prevent her turning around when he felt her bristle. “—not that you couldn’t. You’ve certainly put me on my arse more than a few times. But he’ll only spar with Robb, and only sometimes. He’s given me the ‘honour’ once, and refuses to even acknowledge Jon.”

Arya’s eyes widened. The vile worm, how dare he treat Jon thus?

“Besides,” Theon continued, “Lord Stark was adamant that we try our hardest not to draw blood.”

Arya gnawed on her lip, her eyes narrowing in calculation.

“I’ll have to goad him into accepting, then,” she said, letting her hair fall when he had tied the knot at her waist. Theon gave her a dry look. 

“Well, if you can, I’d love to see the little shit get flattened unawares,” he said. “Today he made a jape to me about Sansa when your brothers weren’t near. I wanted to knock him into the stream.” 

**000**

When Arya had changed into trousers and bound her hair up with wire, she came down to the practice yard to find everyone standing in a circle, watching and shouting encouragement as Arthur sparred with Tommen. For once, her brother seemed to be winning. 

Arya found her other brothers and Theon in the crowd and squeezed in next to them. Robb and Jon, sweaty and red in the face from previous bouts, surprised at her presence but made room for her so she could see. 

On one side of the circle were Lannister knights and squires, and at once Arya spotted the knight they called The Hound, whose face had been burned to a bright leathery red long ago. In front of him stood the prince, arms crossed over his gold-embroidered doublet, hair shining in the sun. His face was twisted into a sneer, and as she drew closer she heard his mocking voice.

“...stand here and watch children play…Starks and northerners really are unrefined...”

She felt her blood boil. When her brother had successfully knocked Tommen to the ground, Arya slipped past Jon and Robb and marched into the circle. From the corner of her eye, she saw Ser Roderick come forward to stop her, but Robb put a hand on his arm and whispered in his ear. Ah, it was good to have brothers. 

As expected, most of the Lannister men gaped. Then some snickered, including Joffrey. 

“You training women here, Roderick?” she heard someone call out, inciting more tittering. Arya turned towards the voice. 

“Why don’t you come spar with me, and we shall see how long it takes a woman to get her sword at your throat?”

Her brothers laughed. Very loudly. Muttering travelled around the Lannister men, but no one stepped forward to take her challenge. Here was a rare advantage to being a girl and supposedly a lady. Men who did not know her never wished to come challenge her outright—where was the honour in that?—and she could get in rather many incendiary words, so that when they did eventually cave to their anger, she got a good fight out of them. 

Arya smirked. 

“Your Grace,” she said, walking up to perform a mock curtsy to Joffrey, who was now glaring down at her, lip twisted. “I’d say your men are cowards, all talk and bluster.” 

She heard Ser Roderick’s chastising tone as he said her name, but he made no move to stop her. 

Around them, the Lannister men bristled. Joffrey’s eyes widened and his face turned purple just like his mother’s had. 

“You _dare?_ You must be retarded in the head. A little wench like you, and you dare insult your prince?” He looked around then, as if trying to determine who to call to come behead her, but Arya spoke again. 

“That hardly matters. I only wish to spar with you.”

His head snapped to her again. 

“You? Spar with me? You’re lucky I’m feeling benevolent today, else your head—”

“Don’t you think you could win against a girl, Your Grace? And I’m a year younger besides.” 

He laughed cruelly, as if she had been humorous.

“Wouldn’t want Lord Stark to be short a daughter at the end of the day,” he said, and the Lannister men joined in. 

Arya smiled tightly.

“I’ve heard much talk of your prowess from my brothers, Your Grace, but now I wonder if your reluctance means you’re just like your men.” She swept her gaze across them. “A coward full of talk.”

Joffrey lunged at her, but Arya slipped back out of his path. He looked at his men again, but Arya did not let him issue a command. 

“If you have one of your men do away with me, you’ll still be a coward who was afraid of a little girl.”

And that was all it took, despite some of his men’s uneasy protests. In moments she found herself in leather armour, facing the prince across the circle with a longsword in hand. Not even a rapier. She was going to fell him with a weapon the size of his own. Joffrey swung his blade in a figure eight, making the air swish, and jeered at her once more. 

“Not too late to beg my forgiveness, _my lady_ ” he mocked, but Arya laughed in his face, and he charged at her, sword glinting in the sun. She dodged easily enough, then turned on the offensive, forcing him back. The rubies on his hilt glinted at the edges of her vision, and Arya tried very hard not to roll her eyes. She had not thought swords decorated thus could seriously be used in battle. 

Joffrey, it turned out, was not an entirely unworthy opponent. It did not surprise her that Robb had lost to him more than once and that Theon had yielded their one spar together, especially if both had been trying not to draw blood, and Joffrey held no such compunctions. Sword-fighting was never Theon’s strong point, and many a training session had ended with Arya pointing her sword-point at Robb’s throat. It was only Jon she had never managed to best with a sword. 

He was on the offensive again, having managed to nearly force her sword from her hand and making her scamper back. Steady once more, Arya moved slashed low, and blade skimmed very close to Joffrey’s leg, making him stumble and dash back just out of her reach before he could fall completely. The Winterfell men cheered, Jon’s voice loudest of all, and Arya broke into a genuine smile. That was enough to spur Joffrey at her once more. 

He was getting tired. She could tell. Served him right for always throwing overhand cuts that were too slow to land. By the time they reached her, she had already dodged out of the way, letting his blade slide off hers at an angle. She was not breezing along either—the longsword always tired her out the fastest, for there was nothing she could do about her small frame and thin arm—but if she timed her next moves right…

Arya drew in, thrusting the blade tighter and tighter to her body, closing the distance between them. Finally, she was close enough. In one motion, she feigned right, leaving her left open to his attack. He saw it, a triumphant smile on his face, and thrust at her arm. Just as he leaned into the trust, she gave his weight-bearing foot one quick swipe with her foot before ducking out of the way. 

Joffrey went flying, landing in the dirt with a dull thud, his sword clattering two feet away. Again, cheers from her brothers, and Arya spun around, approaching Joffrey with her sword angled at his prone form. She could feel the smile spreading slow on her face. 

“Do you yield—oh!”

Suddenly, something was at the back of her neck, lifting her off the ground by the collar. She let out a yelp, and on instinct swung her blade behind her, but another hand was on her wrist like an iron shackle, keeping it pinned. 

“Best not to have that thing pointed at the future king, little girl,” came a blistered voice in her ear. Arya kicked and flailed and punched wildly with her free arm, but before she could understand what was happening, Joffrey had scrambled to his feet and picked up his sword again. 

“Hold the bitch there, Clegane,” he snarled, and in a flash Joffrey was charging at her with his blade. Shouts rose around her, and men dashed this way and that. All was a blur before her eyes until suddenly, a massive grey form loomed over Joffrey like a storm. The next moment, Arya was on the ground, the breath whooshing from her lungs, the dirt rubbing into her eyes. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t be like Theon and Arya, children. Use a condom, and do be careful when you sleep with someone who obviously sleeps around. STIs might not exist in Westeros, (because if they did Tyrion would have lost his nose long before Blackwater), but they certainly exist for us. Hurray. Win.  
> Edit: so, it seems like they do exist. Or, the pox does, anyway. Still, I do stand by my Tyrion comment. Does plot armour act as an automatic condom as well?
> 
> Also…sorry again that I really cannot write fight scenes. I do not enjoy them and I’m also rather bad at them, so….just use your imagination?


	23. Herald

_The rotten buggering sod._

Jon nudged his horse faster as they picked up a gallop through the forest, the rustling of the wind around him filling his ears. 

_Others take the whey-faced Lannister spawn and that entire accursed family._

Father had sent Jon with Uncle Brynden and some of the Winterfell guards out to “attend” the Lannister men on their hunt—he had understood Father’s look of disgust, even through his Lord Stark Face—and if truth be told, Jon wished he were hunting the men instead of pretending to chase the direwolf. 

In the training yard, Jon had watched, frozen with incomprehension, as the burned knight they called the Hound had taken one step behind his sister and hauled her off the ground like a sack. Yet, before any of them could protest, Joffrey had scrambled up like a tenacious roach and tried to skewer Arya, his ruby hilt shiny like blood. Jon gritted his teeth. He was still seeing red, and the scene flashed again and again in his mind, no matter how fast he rode. 

Jon, Robb, Theon, Roderick and even Arthur had all lunged at the prince at once, but before they could reach him, their mother’s direwolf had leapt out from somewhere behind them all. Chaos reigned then. The air swarmed with panicked shouts and dull thumping footsteps. The wolf had knocked Joffrey down into Arya and the Hound, snarling, with lip rolled back to reveal fangs the width of a child’s arm. In that second Jon froze to the ground, watching in awe as Joffrey disappeared behind the giant. 

Robb yanked his arm hard, however, and, without really knowing what he was doing, Jon dove after his brother, tackling the wolf so that her fatal fangs only grazed the prince’s shoulder. Yet there was blood, and hysterical screams, and in a blur of gold and red and grey, all Jon had been able to do was hold on to her scruff for dear life, knowing full well that, though he wished to sink his own teeth into Joffrey, they could not let the damn prince die. 

When at last all was calmed and the Lannister men had long hurried Joffrey inside to tend his wound—Jon noted that not a single one other had stayed behind to attack the wolf that had savaged their prince, the cowards—he had picked up a stunned, red-eyed Arya off the ground and into the Great Keep as if she weighed nothing. 

He had settled his sister onto her bed, never mind that she was covered in dirt, and bellowed into the hall until her maid Palla came running. Soon, their mother had soon flown into the chamber, eyes glassy and wide, her robes flying behind her. After some words Jon could not remember, he had removed himself from the castle and jumped feet first into the freezing black pool in the godswood. 

Jon Snow had never in his life wished to commit cold-blooded murder. Oh, there had been a few moments over the years when he wished to smack Robb on the head with the flat of his sword or perhaps push Theon off a short wall, but never had he wished to end another’s life. Not until today, when he saw the prince charging at his flailing sister with a sword in hand.

In that moment, he had been at once icy cold and burning, as if fire was exploding in his belly. Perhaps if the wolf had not attacked, he would have driven his own sword in Joffrey’s back. Even as he had floated in the pool, letting his body go numb from the cold, he could not help imagining the various ways in which he could detach Joffrey’s head from his body or carve his heart from his chest.

His brothers and Theon had joined him in the pool soon after, and then they had all gathered in Arya’s room, telling the events to his mother before Father returned from his ride out with the king. In an hour’s time, the royal party did return, and Jon found himself standing in the Great Hall, trying his best to keep his head down and stand off to the side with the guards.

His mother had looked at him as they were descending the stairs, as if she needed to say something but did not know how, but Jon understood. Best not to make the queen even angrier than she was by reminding her that Jon had been training around the princes. It was no matter. Jon did not even feel the sting of it this time. Anything to keep the queen’s wrath from Arya.

Questions were asked, and it was mostly Robb and Ser Roderick who answered. Arya would have insisted on speaking, but in her chambers, their mother had ordered her to stay put in that hard, terrifying voice she used on very rare occasions, brooking no argument. Arya had gone white again and nodded.

When it came time for the Lannister men to speak, however, Jon was sorry he had left his sword back in his chambers, for he sorely wished to cut each of their tongues out before he slit their throats.

They had insisted that the wild Stark girl had played dirty tricks to down their gallant prince. She had her sword at his throat and was about to truly cut him, so overcome with bloodlust was she. The Hound had pulled her aside, but just as the prince regained his bearings, the direwolf had come out of nowhere and savaged him most gravely.

Joffrey had stepped before the high table then, before his parents and the king and queen, and made a great show of opening his bandaged shoulder so that the whole room could see the bloody mess. _Amma_ and Father wore matching stone faces, cold with anger, while the queen lamented her poor, dear boy, making Joffrey bristle. Jon thought he was going to be sick from biting his tongue.

It seemed he was not the only one sickened. The king, whose face had been flushing an unnatural red the whole time the men spoke, finally stood from his chair and pointed a shaking finger at Joffrey, grappling for words. The silence in the hall was suddenly so stifling Jon could feel the still air press against his ears.

“You…you…how can you be a son of mine?!” Thundered the king, gasping for air. He heard the queen gasp, but King Robert’s words came down like a hail storm, echoing in the hall.

“You _lost_ to a little _girl_? A year younger than you?! How…you…she does not even reach your bloody shoulder…and you let her put a sword to your throat?!”

Joffrey’s eyes had bulged like a fish, and Jon had to admit to no end of satisfaction at hearing him stutter.

“I-I-I-no-Father-I—you heard the men! You heard them! She played tricks, she fought without honour, she—”

“You’d have me believe those buggering sods? That Ned Stark’s daughter fought without honour? You…! Lost to a _little girl!_ How can you—”

“Your Grace!”

The queen had shot from her seat too, eyes burning like wildfire.

“I would remind you that Joffrey is your heir!” Her gaze swept like a blizzard across the Winterfell guards before landing on Father. She turned back to the king.

“And he let a girl fell him!”

“I know only this: that Robb Stark has lost to Joffrey these past days. Am I expected to believe Lord Starks’ daughter is a better swordsman than his heir?”

The king stiffened.

“Oh, I saw with mine own eyes what that girl is capable of, Your Grace. Flinging needles too fast for the eye to see, insulting the Crown Prince without compunction…A true king would have had her punished for her words alone.”

The king’s fist pounded on the table.

“It seems to me she had the right of it! Even your men say she held her sword to his throat!”

For a moment Jon thought the queen might strike the king. Instead, she clenched her fist and heaved a sharp breath.

“Joffrey is your heir and your son, Your Grace,” she said, her voice like death.

King Robert seemed to deflate as the room again filled with mutterings. Jon felt his indignation swell, but Father and _Amma_ continued to sit stiff and grave, neither speaking up to defend Arya. She was a girl, after all. There was no need to defend her good name in the training yard. Jon did not know if this was fortune or no, but he knew now why his mother had ordered Arya to stay in her chambers.

The king waved his hand, sighing.

“Enough, enough. Let it pass, all of you. Gods, what did I ever fucking do to deserve this? And where is the girl, anyway?”

“She’s in her chambers, Your Grace,” answered his mother. “My healer had to give her milk of the poppy.”

Robert turned to her sharply.

“Is she hurt? No one said she was hurt too.”

“No, only terribly, terribly frightened.” _Amma’_ s face was twisted in maternal worry. “It’s my fault, really. She has always liked riding and sword-play, and so we’ve let her do as she pleased, but she is only fifteen. You know how fifteen year old girls can be, Your Grace. Headstrong and lively and wholly inconsiderate of consequences. And just a girl, in the end.”

Her eyes scanned the Lannister men who had told their blatant lies.

“I am sure the truth was confused in the chaos, but whatever happened has frightened Arya terribly. She hasn’t spoken two words since my son carried her up.”

The king stared at _Amma_ for a moment longer, he’s thick jaw working as if in pain. Finally, he threw up his hands, cursing at the hall at large.

“Just a damfool sparring row between children,” he bellowed to no one in particular. “You all let the folly get this bloody far? Between children!”

But the queen, exquisite eyes flashing, was after blood—if not Arya’s, then the direwolf’s. Jon watched his mother then. She had turned slowly to the queen as the woman spoke of killing the wolf for her crimes, and her eyes were jagged like amethysts, sharp enough to cut. Jon knew that his mother did not carry her knives in her sleeves when inside Winterfell’s walls, and he thought perhaps he should be glad of it. If she had them within her grasp, Cersei Lannister’s tongue might no longer be attached to her head.

Yet, when the queen had spoken, it was Ser Roderick who came to kneel on one knee before the high table. From across the room, Robb caught Jon’s eye, mischief flashing in the blue. Oh, so that was what he and Ser Roderick had been doing before Robb had joined Jon in the godswood. Jon lowered his head to hide his grin.

“My humblest apologies, Your Grace, Your Grace,” said Ser Roderick. “In all the chaos after the…the incident, I’m afraid no one paid any attention to where the wolf had gone. I’m afraid she is no longer in the castle. I have sent scouts out to find her, but it has been hours…”

Cersei Lannister slammed her glass goblet on the table so hard that it shattered, and Jon saw his mother’s throat tighten. Those were expensive, he remembered rather absurdly.

“Perhaps I should have your head instead, ser,” she snarled at Ser Roderick, but the master-at-arms only bowed his head in silence. A servant rushed up to clean away the glass. The king growled.

“Others take you, woman. What was the man supposed to do, stand in front of the thing?”

“What are the Starks’ intentions?” demanded the queen. “Having all these…vicious _beasts_ in this castle when we are here? How recklessly dangerous—”

“I do beg your pardon, Your Grace,” his mother cut in. Her voice was smooth and cold and hard as steel.

“That wolf once slept in my bed and carried my Arya on her back. She has been here more than a moonturn and has not harmed anyone. I truly am sorry for this…incident, but,” here she turned to the king, “Your Grace, you must know that we would never harbour any threat to—”

The king sighed and waved his hand.

“Damn it, Lady Ash, you don’t need to be so careful. I know Ned. But that direwolf…” he glared at the queen, who gave him a look so pointed Jon wondered if the king should start bleeding. His parents saw the look as well. Father glanced at his mother _,_ whose knuckles had gone bone-white from clutching the table, but still, neither said a word.

“Cersei,” said the king, “if you want that damn wolf dead you can send your bother and his men after it. Ned, send some scouts out with them so they don’t shit themselves in your woods. Others take you all, I am done with this debacle of a day.”

With that, the king pushed abruptly from his set and lumbered out of the hall.

And so here Jon was, out in the woods with Uncle Brynden’s outriders and scouts, pretending to hunt the direwolf. Jon had set out intending to curtail the Lannister men’s every effort, but so far, there had been no sign of her. Then again, the southerners did not know the landscape, and Jon was sure the Winterfell scouts weren’t looking very hard.

Jon had heard them talk of the wolf when he had gone on Brynden’s training trips into the woods. All the smallfolk thought the wolf a blessing for the Starks and for the North, and they weren’t going to hunt her just because some southern king ordered them to.

Quent rode up beside him then, his wide smiling face flushed from exertion or excitement, Jon was not sure. Quent found life in general most exciting.

“D’you reckon we’ll find her, Herald? But surely she wouldn’t leave her pups. How’ll we hide her if we do? From the Lannisters, I mean.” For a scout, Quent had a piercing speaking voice and never stopped using it. Jon gave him a sideways look, and he ducked his head.

“Aye. Stealth. Sorry.”

Uncle Brynden served officially as Father’s Commander of the Outriders & Scouts, and Jon had been fourteen the first time Brynden asked him to ride out with the new recruits he was training.

“You ride better than any boy I’ve seen, Jon, and you’re quiet and sleek. Come out and show these boys some of your tricks.” Jon hadn’t been able to sleep the night before setting out. He was the faster than all the boys and Arya, and he revelled in being able to ride better than Robb, though Robb could always unseat him with a lance.

He had set out the next morning with the new recruits, a pack on his saddle just like the others, and when they had discovered that Jon, despite his reserved ways, was rather easygoing and amicable, they had immediately dubbed him Herald.

“It’s ‘cause you’re tall and skinny, and you’re looking a lot like them poles the knights carry their heralds on, see?” Wayn had explained. Well, Jon remembered thinking, Wayn _would_ think Jon tall. At thirteen, the boy had been shorter than Arya. He had not grown much in the intervening years.

Jon had decided, however, that the name had been given in good humour, for the recruits all seemed truly in awe of his skill on a horse. He took it willingly, and it had stuck ever since. Yet, it was not only the satisfaction of being looked to for direction that Jon returned with from that first trip.

For days they had camped in the woods, Uncle Brynden showing them the best ways to disguise themselves amid the trees and guide their horses through the undergrowth with the least disturbance; which leaves could be used to make a drinking cup and which contained irritants and poisons they could use for sabotage; how to follow animal leavings and prints to guess the movement of people, and how to track and shoot down a raven while making hardly a sound.

Jon had been fascinated by all of it. This stealthy sending and gathering of information made him buzz from head to toe with anticipation and purpose, just as he felt when wielding his sword in a duel. Since that first trip he had all but wrangled himself into Uncle Brynden’s company, training with the scouts whenever they set out for overnight trips.

He knew that being a scout was perhaps not the most respected position in an army or a lord’s service, but what did that matter? He was already a bastard. People would not whisper about his choice if he went this route. And besides, Uncle Brynden was nearing sixty. One day, Robb would need someone he trusted just as much as Brynden to command his scouts and outriders.

Never had Jon dared to ask Father about his future, not when Father’s face would grow stiff whenever he reminded him at all that he carried the name Snow. Perhaps his father found shame in the name too. He had heard talk of other bastards in the North—Lord Bolton’s son, who lived with his peasant mother, and Lord Hornwood’s son, who was fostered at Deepwood Mott—and it seemed to Jon that he would have to make his own way in the world one day.

He supposed he could become a travelling knight without being knighted, perhaps even make a name for himself and make his parents proud. But he wished, too, to stay at Winterfell. He wished to be with his family, and he wished to spend his days as he did now, laughing with Robb, bickering with Theon, sparring with Arya and listening to Sam prattle on about some ancient cooking pot.

Jon did not know what to think about his future, and so he did not think. Now was good. He would soak that in and leave the worrying for later.

Jon cast a curious glance at Quent.

“You’re actually trying to find the direwolf? I thought we were—you know—not trying.”

Quent shrugged.

“Some o’ us want to see her one last time. From afar, mind, no up close. Still scares the bejeezus out of me, them eyes and teeth, but from afar. Ma’nif’cent, she is. Me pa saw her the once ten years ago, and I made him tell me ‘bout it for months. Was so excited to see her with my own eyes! Me pa’s been meanin’ to come up to the castle now that I told him she’s come back an’ all, but he don’t got the time what with—Herald?”

Jon frowned, his entire body suddenly alert.

He had heard something on the wind, he was sure of it. Something…something like the human whisper he had heard when he found Ghost on that riverbank. It was meaty and round and light, all at once. As if he were not truly hearing with his ears, but with his mind. A voice whispering words that almost held meaning. He silenced Quent and jutted his chin, and carefully the two picked their way towards the direction of the sound. Was it the wolf? Was this something the direwolves could do—bend the wind to wrap around Jon’s mind?

He felt a tingled down his spine, not quite ice, not quite fire. What was going on? Suddenly, Jon felt fear churn and settle in his belly, though there could be nothing to fear. He had heard something. He was so certain, but now…

Each thicket they passed only yielded more green. Soon, the sound had dissipated like smoke into the sky, and Jon could only wonder if it had truly been there, when just a moment ago he had been so sure. They came to a clearing then, lush and still, and all he heard, now, was the rustling of the trees in the autumn chill.

**000**

As Jon had predicted, their afternoon’s efforts were for naught. The direwolf had faded into the woods, nowhere to be found, as if she had been swallowed by the humus-laden earth. After unloading his horse and bidding goodbye to his scouting friends, Jon made his way back to the Great Keep, looking for Ghost. 

As he passed the training yard, the sound of swords scraping and layered, laughing voices made him pause. Lannister men were gathered in the fading light, swords scattered on the ground as if resting from sword practice. Jon walked a few steps nearer.

“…should have seen your face,” a squat man was saying, slapping his friend on the back. “Looked like you were ‘bout to piss yourself!”

His companions all found this uproariously funny, but the man he’d slapped glared around the circle.

“Oh, don’t act like all you bastards didn’t think you were going to piss yourselves too. That was no wolf—that was a bear with fangs.”

“Thom’s right,” came a reedy third voice from a young squire. “That was a real monster. How’d you think the Starks kept it here so long without it tearing them all into shreds?”

The one called Thom lowered his voice, but his whisper still carried.

“I reckon those Starks have sorcery—something evil in their blood. How else do you explain those wolf pups that follow Stark’s brood around? And the Stark girl? That’s not natural, a girl fightin’ like that.”

“Don’t matter if they did,” said the squat man. “We’ll find the beast, just watch. And the queen’ll have a brand new mantle!”

More laughter, and Jon felt this blood begin to heat. How dare these men sleep under Father’s roof, eating his food and drinking his wine, all the while insulting his family so?

“With all that fur?” the reedy voice was asking. “The queen’ll disappear in it! Better make it a bed covering.”

“D’hear Lady Stark saying the wolf slept in her bed?” asked a fourth man. “I always knew the Dornish were savages too.”

“Hah!” cried the squat man. “Well, I’d have liked to trade places with that wolf in her bed, I can tell you that—what in fucking hells?”

For he stared now at the point of Jon’s sword, its blade shimmering green in the fading light. 

“Pick up your sword,” said Jon. His voice did not sound like his own, for it was cold and lifeless. “I will give you one chance to pick up your sword and fight me like the man you pretend to be, or I will cut out your tongue before I geld you.”

The man, to his credit, did not flinch at the blade in his face. Slowly, he crouched to pick up his sword, and when he had the means to defend himself, his face broke into a sneer. 

“My, my, your talk is big for such a spindly boy. And who the fuck are you?”

Jon did not answer. 

“You’re Lord Stark’s bastard, aren’t you?” asked the reedy-voiced squire. “Jon Snow.”

“Ah, Lord Snow,” grinned the squat man. “Well, well, I suppose I could have the time to play with children.” He raised his own sword, and his companions heckled, the sound of “Snow” on their tongues like the squawking of crows. Jon charged, letting his indignant anger crystallize into cold purpose. He had grown up next to cursing soldiers and crass guardsmen his whole life, but never had he encountered so many men so blatantly without honour.

The squat man lost his smile after two of Jon’s swings. On the third, his sword flew from his hand. Jon raised his boot and kicked him in the chest—a good, solid _thump_ —and the man fell back into the snowy dirt. Jon did not spare him a second glance, instead boring his eyes into the group of Lannister men who seemed suddenly to have grown silent. 

A heartbeat, then a younger, taller man stepped forward. Without a word, Jon met his sword, and in moments he, too, was on the ground.

“Who’s next,” Jon asked, his voice still even. It felt good, this. His arm hummed and he could feel his blood thumping from his face to the tips of his big toes. He could do this into the evening, teach the Lannisters how to show respect. 

“I think I am,” came an amused voice from the back of the crowd. Half the men visibly stiffened, and soon enough they had parted ways for its owner. Hair catching the dying light, a crooked smile on his face, Jaime Lannister walked towards Jon like a king, unsheathing his own sword. 

“Kingslayer,” said Jon, and he did not even mean to cause offence. He had not referred to him as anything else in his mind, for all that he was rumoured to be the best swordsman in the realm. A Kingsguard at sixteen, an oathbreaker at eighteen…no boy in Westeros was unfamiliar with the life of the Kingslayer. Though he no longer wore the white cloak, he still trained the city watch and the king’s royal armies, and it was said no man alive could beat him. 

Jaime Lannister’s smile deepened. 

“Bastard. I rather enjoyed that little show just now. Come then. Let me see what that sword of yours can do.”

The flame was back, roaring wildly in his belly, and Jon did not know if he was angry or anxious or eager. _No,_ he tried to tell himself. _This may be the Kingslayer of legend, but he is only just a man. Keep your head._

He raised his sword, and tried to forget that his hand shook. 

“Gladly.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

The search for her direwolf continued the next day, though Ashara was certain that if they had failed to find her the day before, there was no hope for the Lannister men now. That was one blessing, at least, though she had spent hours staring up at their canopy in the night, wondering if the wolf had been sufficiently healed of her wounds to hunt and run for hours on her own.

That was, when she was not incandescent with rage. 

She had floated through that previous afternoon half in disbelief, her head occupied by wasps, her ears flushed hot. Had the little nit really tried to run Arya through with his sword? It seemed like a scene from a fevered nightmare, and she could barely fathom how she still housed such people in their home. Gods help them all, this was to be the next king?

And Clegane. She did not like to blame blood for the actions of individuals, but there must surely be something tainted in that family. Or perhaps the fire that had burned Ser Sandor’s face had also turned any sense of humanity to ashes alongside it. 

Ned had half lost his head in anger too, and at the high table she had kept her fingers dug into his knee so that he did not rise and demand that Joffrey and the Hound be whipped for mistreating their daughter so. It would not do to contradict the king in public, but oh, her reckless, intrepid Arya! _Sew with the queen and keep her company,_ Ashara had instructed, and she had gone and challenged the prince to a duel. And called him ‘coward’ in front of all his men. Her reckless, wilful child. She had to know precisely what she was doing, and yet she did it regardless.

An image of Arya terrorizing King’s Landing came to mind, and Ashara shivered, but then she saw her daughter’s pale face and red eyes from the day before, and all she knew was hurt. She was only fifteen, for all that she was more grown up and knew more of the world than Sansa. Still a girl. Still unknowing of the dark crevices of humanity. Did she think the crown prince would simply yield after such humiliation?

Was she to simply let go of this wrong? No, Ashara thought not, but what could she do? The king had spoken. There would be no punishment save that Robert had called his son a coward before half his sworn men. Man’s justice—king’s justice, it seemed, did not chain Lannister to the earth like regular men. Ashara gritted her teeth. 

And yet, she still could not bring herself to hate them all. 

This morning, as she had descended the stairs to see to the men heading off to hunt once more, she found Tyrion Lannister in her path, bowing low before her. She stopped in her tracks, not even trying to hide her cold expression. The man was unfazed.

“Lady Stark. I hope the morning finds you well. And Lady Arya?”

“Yes,” she said, trying to reign in her anger. It would not do to be discourteous. They were still guests when they slept beneath her roof. “I thank you for your concern.”

He offered her a small, apologetic smile.

“Please, you needn’t thank me for anything, Lady Stark. I know my nephew can be…arrogant and childish at times. He is untried and spoiled, and we will do our best to teach him. And Her Grace my sister was only protecting her son. Surely you can understand that, my lady?”

She felt her eyes narrow. Ashara had seen the way Cersei Lannister looked at her dwarf brother these past days. It was not the gaze one laid on family, but on a gnat. 

“I understand that the king ruled as he saw best,” she said. “And you are right that the prince and my daughter are both still young.”

Tyrion Lannister gave a half laugh, sounding defeated, but did not press. Instead, he bowed again.

“I came in search of you to ask if I may visit your library, my lady. I have heard many wondrous things about the ancient books at Winterfell.”

She had heard that this Tyrion Lannister liked to read. Ashara had always held an affectionate place in her heart for those who loved books as she did, and she had instructed servants to stock Lord Tyrion’s rooms with extra candles and lamp oil for his nighttime reading habits. Now she could not help softening her face. 

“Of course, my lord. You are welcome to the library. And if Septon Chayle is napping, there is no need to wake him. More like than not, my son and my husband’s ward will be in the library as well. You can ask them to assist you.”

His eyebrows twitched.

“Oh! I see. Your son the scholar.” 

There was no malice in his voice. Ashara studied his face. There was much he could have said to her—remarking on the irony of Arthur’s name, lamenting how her only natural son had not been born a warrior—but as much as she did not want to know it, she could see that Tyrion Lannister meant her family no ill will at present.

She smiled reluctantly, and saw his eyebrow twitch again. 

“Yes, my son Arthur. May the library not disappoint you, Lord Tyrion.”

She made her way down to the bailey then, but it would seem she could not keep the Lannisters at bay this day. As she directed the servants in handing out bread, cheese and water skins to each of the outriders, she heard footsteps beside her and turned to see the queen’s other brother beside her. He grinned, the expression holding none of the tentative contrition his brother’s had. Nonetheless, she smiled back tightly.

“Ser Jaime.”

“My lady.”

“Can I help you?”

He turned to look at his men. 

“I wished to tell you, my lady, that I had the most marvelous sparring session yesterday.”

She raised an eyebrow, though her nails dug into her palm. What was Jaime Lannister playing at?

“How wonderful, ser.”

“Yes. Yes it was.” He grinned. “It was against your husband’s bastard. Jon Snow. Quite a swordsman, that boy. Took me by surprise, and I almost had to yield to him.”

Ashara blinked, but he quickly continued. 

“It’s funny, my lady, that he should not be your natural son. When we were sparring, more than once I thought I was fighting the Sword of the Morning himself.”

Ashara heard the rush of air from her throat as if she were underwater. Even after all these years—and so many of them spent calling her son’s name—the sudden thought of her brother could knock the wind from her lungs. She clenched her fist tighter, surely breaking the skin on her palm, and turned to Jaime Lannister. 

“What a lovely thing to say,” she said, and was surprised her voice did not sound raw. “Jon has trained hard all these years. No doubt it would make him proud to hear your praise.” 

And it was, in truth. When the familiar wave of cutting grief had passed and her mind had again cleared, Ashara felt what could only be a fierce pride swell in her chest. She did not know if Ser Jaime meant his words, but if he did—if Jon had managed to to impress one of the best swordsmen in the realm…

Ser Jaime’s smile widened. 

“’Tis a shame he is a bastard, though I have heard of some becoming knights. Your husband did not wish to foster out his sons to be squires?”

Must this family vex her so? One of the best swordsmen Jaime Lannister might be, but skill with a sword was no promise of tact and honour. He had proven that seventeen years ago, and was proving it again now. Or perhaps he hoped to irk her with his words. If that were so…

“All my children keep the old gods of the North. They have no need to be knighted.”

She narrowed her eyes then, and tilted her chin, considering him. For a few moments neither spoke, and Ashara could see the slight shift of unease in his eyes when they met hers. She smiled.

“Ser Jaime, you were knighted by my brother, were you not?”

“I—yes, I was.” She did not move her gaze. He could not seem to look away. Ashara had always known her eyes were the exact same colour Arthur’s had been. 

“I believe you were knighted for valour on the battlefield. After you Kingsguard knights defeated the Kingswood Brotherhood?”

He grinned again, almost absently.

“I am most flattered by your sharp memory, my lady.”

Ashara laughed lightly. 

“I remember every letter my brother ever wrote to me, Ser Jaime. I would sit with my feet dangling off the ramparts on Dragonstone, reading and rereading each and every one. I believe I know a great deal about your youth.”

The grin faltered. Still, Ashara did not look away, but let her own smile fade into a soft frown. 

“Tell me, Jaime Lannister. Whatever happened to the earnest and good-hearted boy in Arthur’s letters?”

All traces of humour melted from his face like paint in the sun. His jaw tightened, yet he did not shy away from her probing look. 

A moment passed, then two, the air thick. 

Finally, he said,

“I have not been that boy in many years, Lady Stark.”

“I see. I am not the only one who would consider that a great shame.”

His nostrils flared and his brows were low. He looked almost in pain, as if in battle with himself, debating whether to speak his next words. Finally, just as Ashara was about to curtsy and leave this petty, maddening man, he opened his mouth. 

“Aerys wished to murder my father. He commanded me to do it.”

Ashara laughed. 

“Aerys wished to murder a great many people. He once told me he would have my hair tied to resemble a wick and light me on fire like a candle, and yet here I stand.”

He stared at her an instant, and then he, too, broke out in a laugh. The sound was bitter and humourless like the brown stalk of dead flowers, so jarring coming from his golden head. 

“Oh, you have the right of it, Ashara Dayne. Aerys indeed wished to murder a great many people.”

And he turned on his heel and stalked off without so much as a nod. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to my amazing betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina) without whom this chapter would simply…not exist. Literally all the plot points here were things they helped come up with. At this point they’re basically my co-authors. 
> 
> Sorry if you wanted to see that Jaime/Jon fight. I just…can’t. Your imagination is probably better than anything I could write.


	24. Voices on the Wind

Arthur watched the hunt ride out from the highest floor of the library tower.

The sun still sat low on the horizon, casting long lavender shadows over the snowdrifts, glittering orange through the pines beyond. Despite the tension of the past days, the king had insisted on setting the wild boar recently spotted near Winterfell on the table for dinner, and so this morning, Stark, Baratheon and Lannister men rode out through the gates once more. Fewer Lannister men than had come with the king, Arthur noticed.

The Lannisters had only ceased their search for Amma’s wolf days before. Everyone could see, as the days passed, that it became a task more to ease the queen’s injured pride than anything else, and the Lannister men, perhaps unused to the terrain of the North, were falling off their horses and injuring themselves in numerous freak accidents. 

Served them right. How dare they hunt their direwolf, and how dare Joffrey try to hurt Arya? When the prince had rushed at his sister with a sword, Arthur had wished like never before that he was a giant with infinite fighting abilities. He’s wanted to chop the golden knave in half. If Robb or Jon had done it, that would have been just as good. 

Arthur could feel, too, the unease humming just below the surface every time he entered the Great Hall for meals, and his parents wore strained expressions for days. When he had asked if they would still be going south, however, his father had only placed a hand on his shoulder and told him that nothing had changed. And yes, they could still bring their wolves along. He’d had that determined set about his eyes when he’d said it, so Arthur knew Father would not even hear arguments against it. 

Their parents had even allowed Arya to ride out with the hunt this day, and his sister seemed fully recovered from her encounter with the prince and his burned knight. She had looked more frustrated and angry about the whole event than anything else, but she, too, did nothing save seethe and whack harder than usual at the practice dummy. Arthur didn’t really understand how it was that his parents could just let this go, and especially how Arya could keep calm with the prince around. Surely Joffrey needed to be punished. That would be justice, wouldn’t it, and fair? 

Theon and all his siblings save Jon and Sansa had ridden out for the hunt. Sansa was in her chambers practicing her harp, while Jon had mumbled something about teaching Ghost tricks in the godswood, though Arthur knew it was because Jon was a bastard, and Father did not wish to offend the Lannisters by having him show his face. Poor Jon. He could ride and shoot on horseback better than all of them, Theon included, but nothing was fair.

Arthur and Sam had stayed in the castle, of course, as they always did. Neither had any appetite for shooting arrows at animals, for all that Arthur still ate their meat. Every so often, he could hear Sam turning the pages of his massive Chronicles of Craftsmanship book in the companionable silence of the library, punctuated by Septon Chayle’s occasional snore. 

Arthur had half expected his mother to join the hunt too. She hadn’t had the chance to ride for months, he knew, but she had only given him a defeated smile when he’d asked. 

“It would be terribly rude of me, I’m afraid, as the queen is not attending.” And that was the end of it, though he understood this was yet another strike against the Lannisters in general and wondered how his parents would fare having to temper their distaste for the queen at court. 

On the seat beside him, Dawn gave a hopeful little yip, demanding pets, and Arthur gathered him onto his lap so he could give him a good tousle between the ears. He had not intended to name his direwolf after the famous House Dayne sword. When he had awakened from a fantastical dream of snow on fire and woods engulfed in swirls of flame, his pup had been hovering over him—backlit by the rising sun, his fog-grey fur gilded in light—and Arthur had known that Dawn was his name. It was only when he told Lia and she had given him a strange look that he realised the implications. 

He had felt slightly embarrassed. He never dared ask his mother precisely why she named him for her renowned brother, but Arthur sometimes felt shamed that, not only would he never live up to the name of Ser Arthur Dayne, but never in his life had he wished to. He thought, then, that perhaps he should not name the wolf Dawn, but it had seemed the only right name, and so he had shyly informed his mother at supper the next day. 

She only smiled and kissed his forehead, telling him that it was wonderful. 

Arthur supposed it was. Much better than the name Lia had given her wolf, in any case. He understood that she had named Mouse after the woman captain Marilda of Hull—she was quick to correct anyone who raised an eyebrow—but as he’d told her, anyone normal would only assume she had named her wolf after a rodent. She had responded with a sardonic smile.

“They can think what they want. If they dare laugh, I’m sure Mouse will correct them.”

Arthur had always known Lia was a bloodthirsty little fiend. 

Dawn leapt up then and nuzzled into his neck, climbing halfway onto Arthur’s shoulder. He was getting too big to do such a thing, but he had not yet realised, and Arthur was forced to turn away from the window and steady himself lest he be pushed over by the wolf’s weight. 

“If I come over there, he won’t attack me again, will he?”

Arthur looked up. The voice belonged to Lord Tyrion. He stood perhaps ten feet away from Arthur, a wine goblet in one hand and a flagon in the other, looking at him with hesitation. The previous day, Dawn had leaped upon Lord Tyrion in greeting, toppling both man and wine. It had been a rather messy affair, the wine narrowly missing the scrolls on the shelves nearby, and Arthur was grateful his mother did not find out. 

“I don’t think so,” he answered now, hopping off the window seat and coming to meet Lord Tyrion at the nearby table, making sure to hold on tight to his wolf. The Imp set his wine down, then peered at Dawn, who was eying him back, amber eyes curious and innocent. 

“Do you think…would he let me pet him?”

“I don’t see why not. He wasn’t trying to attack you yesterday, I promise. He was just being friendly. He just doesn’t understand his size yet, and still thinks he’s a newborn pup.”

“So you say,” remarked Lord Tyrion dryly, but he nonetheless set down the book and approached slowly. He held out a hand for Dawn to sniff, then tentatively reached out a hand. Perched on the leather chair beside him, his wolf was of a height with the Imp, but Dawn only narrowed his eyes happily at the pat on his head. 

“See? He’s really well-behaved most of the time.” Lord Tyrion smiled, and there was a sort of pleasantness about his sunken face. Arthur was angry at the Lannisters, but not at Lord Tyrion.

The Imp then withdrew a thin worn book from inside his doublet. 

“I must say, Lord Arthur, your suggestion yesterday was excellent. This History of the North at the Time of the Dance was certainly more engrossing than most histories I’ve encountered in my time. Really brings Lord Cregan to life.”

Arthur felt his eyes grow wide.

“You read that all in one day?” It had taken Arthur three days, and he had been voracious for Cregan Stark’s exploits. 

Lord Tyrion shrugged.

“An afternoon and a night. As I say, most engrossing.” He set the book down.

“You mean you stayed up all night to read?”

Lord Tyrion coughed. 

“Well, yes, but you shouldn’t do that, Lord Arthur. No, certainly not, and please, don’t tell your good mother I’ve suggested such a thing. I’ve kept up this bad habit since I was a boy, and thus my growth was stunted.”

For a moment Arthur froze, nearly trembling with repressed laughter but not wishing to be rude. Lord Tyrion grinned then, and the laugh burst from him like a little forge explosion, the sound sharp enough to jerk Sam’s head up from his book. 

“What? What’s happening—oh! Lord Tyrion! Good morrow.”

Sam smiled, marked his place on the big tome, and walked over to them. Dawn yipped, wagging his tail, and Sam gave him a rub about the neck. 

“Ah, Lord Samwell. Still working at the Mordican I see. I admire your tenacity. I found it dry as dust and impossible to trudge through.

Sam spread his hands.

“Nothing for it but to persevere, really. It’s really interesting once you get past the language.”

Lord Tyrion gave him a wry smile.

“I’m sure they could use men like you at the Citadel, Lord Samwell. They quite value tenacity there, I’ve heard.”

From the look on Lord Tyrion’s face, he realised he had misspoken the moment the last words had left his lips. Sam had frozen in place. Lord Tyrion gave an exaggerated cough.

“Right, stupid of me. Of course you would be needed back at Horn Hill. Eldest son and all that. My apologies.”

Sam shook his head mutely, and for some moments the air hung awkward and thick. 

Finally, Arthur could stand it no longer. 

“Lord Tyrion, if you liked that book, I can suggest you look at Maester’s Anson’s work on Aegon III and the demise of the dragons next,” he said, his voice excessively cheerful in an attempt to dispel the tension. “It’s, uh, down two flights with the other books on zoology.”

Lord Tyrion finally turned to him and nodded resolutely. 

“Yes, very well. I shall venture down to the works on the sciences. Most grateful for your recommendations, Lord Arthur. Lord Samwell.” He gave them both a stiff nod, picked up his wine, and marched purposefully to the stairwell on his small legs.

Arthur turned back to Sam.

“You know, he didn’t—”

Sam shook his head. 

“There’s no need for concern about my injured sensibilities,” he sighed. “Lord Tyrion didn’t mean any malice, but he was right. I am more suited to books and the Citadel, not a lordship.”

“Perhaps if you wrote to your father…”

Sam gave him a sad smile. 

“That’s not how these things work, Arthur. And my father isn’t like Lord Stark. He’d never agree. And I am still his eldest son at the end of the day.”

And with that Sam returned to his massive tome, leaving Arthur to frown and pet Dawn between the ears. 

**000**

He was at the wooden table, well engrossed in an account of Corlys Velaryon’s second voyage to Essos, when he felt a tickle on his neck. On instinct, Arthur reached behind his head and scratched absently. A moment later the tickle was back. Frowning, he turned around, his gaze reluctant to leave the page, but let out a yelp when suddenly Lia’s big eyes were before him, glittering with mirth.

She had a huge, self-satisfied smile on her face, and in her hand was a bit of frayed rope. 

“Sis! What the—aren’t you supposed to be on the hunt?”

She slipped into the seat next to him, and Arthur peered around until he spotted Dawn looking resigned as Mouse sat on top of him, wagging her tail and looking innocent. 

“I was, but I decided to stay last minute,” she said, absently brushing at his hand with the end of her rope. He shot her a dark look, and she grinned and blew on the frayed ends.

“We’re leaving Winterfell soon. You and I have a treasure waiting for us.”

Arthur followed Lia through the inner bailey, stopping first at the forge to borrow a variety of tools from a head-scratching Mikken, then into the armoury the nick a couple of water skins and rucksacks. He wasn’t even annoyed that Lia had come to disrupt one of the rare chances he’d had for reading these past weeks—Father had insisted he spend much time training with Prince Tommen since the royal party arrived—for though he’d quite forgotten about the bronze knob buried in the ruins of the Broken Tower, now that Lia had reminded him of it, he felt that eager flutter in his belly at the prospect of long-lost treasure. But, of course, he had made sure Lia carried her share of the water. 

In the godswood, (Jon was nowhere to be seen), they had (with certain difficulty from Mouse) instructed their wolves to stay put. Then Arthur led the way, shimmying up the tall sentinel by the wall, and they were off to the First Keep. The stones under his bare toes were rougher than usual—the consequence of his neglected climbing these past weeks—but the air was fresh like biting into a fall apple, and Lia’s laughter swam around him like a gurgling stream.

As they crossed the rooftops of the armoury and guard halls, Lia ran ahead of, giving him a wiggle of her eyebrows as she spun in a circle before vaulting over the parapets on the First Keep, her hair trailing like an inky cloud behind her. 

Arthur sped up his pace and joined her atop the ancient stones, poking her ticklish side before darting away so she could not poke his. 

“Arthur Stark, you’d better watch your back!”

“I’m wide open now. Come get me if you’re so sure of yourself!”

She chased him around the round fortress, both leaping over the familiar breaks in the stone until she finally caught up to him by swinging in a precarious arc off the inner edge of the walls and coming up in front of him. They tackled each other—rucksacks sliding off their shoulders, both trying to prod the other in the ribs—until Arthur finally managed to extricate himself, panting and stomach aching from exertion or laughter it was impossible to tell.

“You win…you win,” he panted, his hands raised high in surrender. She stopped midway to him, leaning against the wall, cheeks rosy and eyes bright. 

“I’ll let you off the hook this time,” she said in triumph, then jutted her chin towards the tower. “After you, big brother.”

Arthur made his way up the tower, swinging from one snarling wolf gargoyle to the next until he landed on the loose debris atop the tower with a soft thud. Lia had not yet reached him, and for a moment he peered out over the broken edge, watching the people milling about below. Extra hands had been hired in the kitchens for the king’s visit, but he still recognised Sal, who always had her red hair piled like a sugar bun on her head, and Minni, who always stood with her weight on one leg and her elbows sticking on like a chicken. 

There were the gardeners too—the one who liked to sing bawdy songs while he worked had taught Arthur and Lia nearly all the curses they knew—and the brewer who always snuck them samples of his strong beers, and the smiths’ apprentices who worked at the forge and used to chase Arthur when he hopped up on their roof, but always bowed deferentially when Lia was around. 

Wylla was by the glass gardens, a basket overflowing with sprigs and jars tucked under her arm after a visit to her grandmother, no doubt, and beside her, little Gala skipped with her own basket swinging about her fat little legs. 

He turned his head, and there was Hodor, a sack of feed over his shoulder, bending low to listen as he guided the blind Old Nan back to the castle door. Arthur could almost hear his contemplative reply of “Hodor” carried on the wind. 

How long would it be before he could see this view again? How long before they returned to Winterfell? Father would have the position of Hand for years and years, and Arthur would surely be a man grown before he came home again.

“What are you staring at? You look like your mind’s flown out with the crows.”

His sister had come to sit beside him, placing her chin on his shoulder. Arthur shrugged with his other side. 

“Nothing in particular, really. Just…everything here, all the familiar stuff. We won’t see it again for a long time.”

“You’re really going to miss home, huh?”

Arthur turned to her.

“You’re not?”

It was her turn to shrug. 

“Maybe. But it’ll always be here. The world is so big and there are so many things we haven’t seen yet. I can’t wait to ride through all the new places on just the road alone.”

Arthur frowned, and thought with a pang of old Flea, whom he would also be leaving, riding instead a younger horse who would adapt better to new environs down south. 

Lia nudged him. 

“Don’t look so glum. Flea’s old, but not that old. He has ten years left in him at least. You’ll see him again.”

“I suppose,” he said.

“Oh, buck up. Didn’t you tell me there are poppy and daisy fields as far as the eye can see in the Riverlands, and actual rubies in the Trident from Rhaegar’s armour? And in the Neck, there are those huge man-eating lizards and bats with wings so thin you can see through them? Oh, and that fungus that glows green when you burn it! Come on, Artie, aren’t you excited to see the things you’ve only read about?”

Arthur gave her a little smile then. 

“Aye, I do want to see it all.”

“So, lucky us. Right, up then. Now I want to see this treasure.”

They poured water from the skins around the bronze half-circle, working away at the softened debris before pouring more water to loosen the next layer. It was slow and tedious, but Arthur fell into recounting some of Corlys Velaryon’s adventures for his sister, so the work was bearable enough. After what seemed like hours, they stood up and stretched, and Arthur could feel the small of his back aching. 

They had uncovered enough of the object to see that the round bit was just the tip of it. It had an intricately carved cone shape attached to the end of the round tip, and runes ran along the exotic patterns, the edges worn smooth by time. It was still too deeply buried to pull out or even wiggle, and Arthur was beginning to doubt if they could finish this all in one day. 

“I’m going to copy some of the runes down,” he said, retrieving the parchment scraps and wrapped charcoal he had remembered to pack.

“Fine. My neck hurts, anyway,” said Lia, and she did a handstand against one of the higher broken walls, shaking her legs before coming upright again. Arthur raised an eyebrow.

“And that is why your head is so big,” he mumbled to his parchment, feeling his mouth twitch when she darted close to him. 

“What was that you said, Artie? Hmm?”

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” 

“Ha ha, so clever Arthur. Why don’t you call my head big to my face?”

“You said it, not me.” Her eyes grew huge.

“Well, you can—” Suddenly, she froze like a startled deer, and Arthur watched as a tiny line appeared between her brows.

“Lia—”

“Sh! Listen!” She ran over to the lower edge of the tower and tipped her head over the edge. Arthur frowned. He followed her and stuck his head out as well,, but there was nothing on the ground.

“Don’t you hear that?” she whispered. “There’s someone in the upper room.” And as soon as she said so Arthur heard it too. Two voices, it sounded like, drifting jumbled and wordless up from the room. He felt a jolt up his spine. There had never been anyone up in the remaining tower rooms in all the years they had been climbing here. 

“What is anyone doing in there?” There was nothing in those rooms save dust and mice and spiders. 

Lia bit her lip, then, to Arthur’s abject terror, made to swing her legs over the side. He gripped her arm like a vice.

“What do you think you’re doing? You can’t climb down the side!” The windowed face of the Broken Tower had been worn by the wind and snow over the centuries, and the only grips wide enough to bear their weight were the gargoyles that jutted sporadically around. 

Lia scowled at him. 

“I want to hear what they’re saying,” she pouted, but Arthur could see that she was hesitant about climbing down that way too. “No one’s ever been down there. Aren’t you the least bit curious?”

He was. Arthur felt like his skin was crawling for need to know why there were suddenly people in the tower room. He chewed the inside of his cheek. 

“How about this,” he said finally. “You hang off the ledge with your feet, and I’ll hold on to them so you don’t fall.” Hopefully Lia was just tall enough that her head would hang at a place close enough to make out words. Lia put on her shoes and tied her hair into a knot. Carefully, she leaned out over the edge, her hands gripping each brick as she slowly inched herself lower until she hung off the broken wall by the backs of her feet. For some moments she stopped and listened, and Arthur could see her head moving, considering. Finally, she twisted her neck to look up at him. 

“I need to be lower,” she hissed up at him, gesticulating so she was understood. “Grab my feet and lean over.”

Arthur opened his mouth to protest, but thought it best not to contradict her when she was hanging upside down on a wall. Gingerly, he gripped one ankle, easing it off the ledge and shifting the weight into his arm, then did the same with the other. Damnation. How could Lia weigh so much? 

And yet the curiosity burned, and besides—Arthur was no weakling. He had trained in the yard just like his brothers, and surely he could hold his sister’s weight for a little bit of time. Slowly, he lowered his arms then his torso, his stomach tightening as he planted his feet and dropped her as low as he could. The edge of the tower had been worn smooth, but the stone was hard pressed up into his stomach. Still, Lia made no more effort to hiss up at him, so she must be able to hear now, her head seemingly only inches away from the top of the window.

The voices were those of a man and a woman, Arthur could almost be sure, but he could only hear the rising and falling tones, one pitched higher than the other, carried over the breeze. His arms and belly were burning, and he was beginning to feel pins and needles in his right hand, but no, he could hold on a little longer. Lia likely hadn’t figured out the—

She gasped, a sharp, piercing sound. The voices inside stopped, then suddenly one drew close. 

“Pull me up, quick!” his sister cried in alarm, but for long moments his arms were stiff as leaden rods and his torso like jelly. 

“Artie, quick!” but the more she tried to struggle up, the heavier she became. He could feel Lia’s panic wash into him, but tried more than anything to hold it at bay. Finally, Arthur ground his teeth so hard he thought his teeth might crack. With a heave so painful he saw stars behind his eyes, he pulled her up and jerked her over the edge, falling backwards. There were thumps as she landed, but Arthur could barely move, bright spots and black clouds exploding over his unseeing eyes. 

He did not know how long he lay there, his frantic heartbeat the only thing filling his ears, but when his head cleared, he seemed to feel, even before he sat up, that something was terribly, desperately wrong. Clouds floated against the vivid blue sky, light and easy, and the air was silent save for the distant caw of a crow.

“Lia?”

His arms still burning and weak, he scrambled over and pushed himself up, shaking with the effort. His sister was slumped on her side against the wall, arms limp, eyes closed, an angry red patch on her forehead. 

“Lia!” 

His mouth was dry, his throat seemed to close, and distantly his hands tingled painfully. Arthur clambered over to her, tapping her cheek, shaking her shoulder. 

“Lia? Lia, this isn’t funny, damn it! Lia! Can you just bloody open your eyes, please!”

Arthur’s heart was in his chest, choking out the air, and rush after rush of nausea flooded his head. He shook her and shook her and pleaded that she wake, but her ears were deaf to him, and she did not open her eyes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry


	25. Mothers and Fathers

She might wake up tomorrow, or in a month, or in a year. Or never. It was up to the gods, said Old Yli, and there was nothing mortals could do. There seemed nothing wrong with Elia save that she did not open her eyes.

"There there, girl," Yli had whispered in Rhoynish, coming to cradle Ashara's head to her bosom like she used to do when Ashara was young. "Whatever happens, you will get through it. You always have. And now you have a good man who stands with you, and many children besides."

Ashara was not sure of her words. Yli always told her she was strong, but she knew that she was not. She was a block of brittle stone, and everyone she had lost had chipped away a bit of her to take with them. She could not bear another hit of the cruel chisel. She would crack all over and crumble to dust.

Ashara had wept herself dry into Ned's chest, and let him crush her to him as they sat by Elia's bed. but there had been no words to exchange. Neither were fools, and they had become pitiful indeed at lying to one other over the years. Neither could say with any certainty that Elia would wake soon and so they stayed silent, taking turns standing vigil over their little girl.

She had crept once up to the tower room that served as a sept, lighting candles before each of the statuettes Dev had sent for her when he'd sent Septa Dyna North. She did not wish to anger the gods further with neglect, but she had escaped the room soon after. Ashara did not think there had ever been comfort for her before the Seven. Only duty and fear.

Every time they left her bedside to attend to the duties Robb and Sansa could not, Ashara forced herself to swallow the rusty fear that, in her absence, her child would stop breathing. The fear churned, too, that every moment she spent not reading through old medical texts was a moment she wasted. What if she found a cure, only to realise it was too late?

She had a whole castle to care for and royal guests living above the Great Hall, she knew, but that did not stop her feeling that she was a puppet paralysed by dread, worked by strings attached to deadened limbs.

Elia was their youngest child, her babe and the last child she would ever have. Since she had been an infant, she had been like the morning star itself, an orb of light and spirit and pure glowing _joy_ come to light up their lives with her constant laughter. Oh, the way she laughed! even before she could talk, her plump cheeks dimpling, the bridge of her nose scrunching like a bunny. Ashara had not thought she could bear to name a daughter after Elia, but she had seen her babe's laughing face and knew that a sliver of her friend lived on in her.

And now…she had not heard Elia's laughter in many days, and Winterfell seemed like a tomb, grave and still and lifeless, and at times she thought she caught the heavy stench of pine resin. If she lost another child…she could not…The last time had torn her ragged heart out of her chest and nearly cast her into the sea. She would not survive this time.

Arthur had slipped into his sister's room the day after her fall. He had disappeared when the men managed to get her down from that broken tower. Ashara had tried to go after him, but Ned had let him go, understanding that he needed space and silence to pull back his wits. He would blame himself, Ned had said, and no matter what they did, he would not forget this.

And Ashara could never forget that terrible coldness when Arthur had stumbled into her solar, his eyes red and wild.

"I did not mean to—it wasn't supposed to—" He had been trembling like a leaf, shaking his head, his movements jerky. "We just wanted to hear who was in the tower room—but then—and then—she told me to pull her up but I—I must have—it was an accident, _Amma_ , just an accident—"

She did not know how she had tamped down her own panic to coax the story from Arthur. Oh, gods help her, she should have made them stop climbing years and years ago. It had always made her nervous, but it seemed to give them so much joy…

What had they been thinking? But they were only twelve. Like as not, they did not think.

Arthur had hung off the side of the tower, dangling his sister from the edge to eavesdrop on what was no doubt some tryst between a guard and a maid. When he struggled to pull her up, he must have hit her head on the side of the tower, for there had been bits of stone and dust in her head wound.

It had taken hours for the men to reconstruct one of the ladders connecting Winterfell's two walls and retrieve her down from the tower. Arthur, when he had seen his sister safely in her bed and heard Yli's words, had slipped off into the godswood with Dawn as if he meant never to return.

Yet he did return, and had climbed wordlessly into bed next to Elia and slept like the dead. The next day, he had disappeared into the library tower and returned to Lia's room with books stacked higher than his head. Hodor, the simple stable hand, followed behind with his arms full of books too and scattered them beside the hearth.

"There will be something in here that will wake her," Arthur had said simply, and Ashara felt her heart tear like parchment in her chest. But in the days that followed, she too had been lured by the promise of the fluttering pages and the truth of his words. She sat down next to her son to read the ancient tomes, searching for any mention of Elia's symptoms, or perhaps a miraculous cure.

They had yet to find any such thing, but the reading occupied her mind like a rope she could cling to at the edge of the abyss.

Ashara found it hard now to look upon their faces. They were so very young, her children, but both looked strained and weathered, with deep purple smudges beneath their eyes and a dullness to their cheeks.

Elia had to wake. She had to. In the depths of winter in 287, both Jon and Robb had come down with crimson fever. For days, as the boys tossed unconscious in their beds, burning pink and shivering despite the furs, Ashara had truly been sick with fear that they would die. Yet they had survived—her two little fighters—and Elia would live too. She had to.

Her children would not know what it was to lose a sister. Arthur could not lose his twin. She knew what they were to each other—a blind man could see it. They'd had a language only they spoke as children, and it was only with Elia that Arthur seemed to bloom to life, becoming spirited and lively when he was usually so reserved—his father's son through and through.

And what had he ever done, to be cursed to carry tragedy with him for the rest of his life? As it was, he would always be haunted by the sight of his sister's limp form against the broken tower walls, but surely even the gods were not so cruel as to subject that tearing agony on her little boy.

Even after all these years, there were nights when Ashara still awoke in the middle of the night, her imaginings of her brother's death still blinding before her eyes. Arthur lying against a rock, blood gushing from his neck. Ned taking Howland Reed's knife and shoving it into the base of his skull. Ned unwrapping Dawn in the Council Hall at Starfall, telling her he had killed her brother.

On those nights, she would slip out of their bed, unable to bear touching him even as her body's reaction broke her heart. In the early years, she would sneak into the nursery and hold her children or curl into the tufted chair, trying to find sleep once more. Sometimes, Elia would smile in her sleep, and when she did Ashara would always feel healed and hopeful and new.

As the children grew, her pain had dulled and faded like colours on a tapestry left in the sun. The dreams came less often, and without the force to knock her crumpling to the ground. Still, some mornings Ned would find her in her turret library, watching the sunrise through the narrow window. On days like these, he would know better than to lay even a hand on her shoulder.

Instead, he usually left her in her silence and sent up a servant with something hot in a mug. Her heart would overflow with love and gratitude, even as it hung jagged and raw in her chest.

She had promised to forgive him, but forgiveness for this was not a single task, not a single thing given in that little catboat at the mouth of the Torrentine. With each and every such dream she had, Ashara found herself gritting her teeth and working anew to forgive this man who had loved her and cherished her and given her joy and children these many years past. It defied logic.

It went against reason. And it often mired her in guilt. Yet Ned never said a word, and she always found her way back to their bed, though the dreams had never entirely left her.

Was this the gods punishing her family for her ingratitude, for her insistence on clinging to those distant pains? Did they seek to remind her that her life these past years had been the dream Ashara dared not let herself imagine at one and twenty? That they could take it all away in an instant? What did they want from her, then? What had she done wrong?

 _I've tried, I've tried_ , she pleaded into the black nothingness. _I want to forgive him once and for all. I wish never to quarrel again. And I have tried and tried to be a good wife and mother, yet here my daughter lies._

 _Have you tried?_ came the reply, frosty with condemnation. _Have you been a decent mother at all, or have you simply been a craven, afraid that truth will burn? You have let him lie to your child these last years. What pains have your husband's silence dealt?_

Elia's chamber door opened, spilling warm light across the stone floors, and at the foot of the bed the two wolflings raised their heads, their silhouettes sniffing the air before resting once more.

Ned came to sit beside her. She could feel his warmth envelope her in the darkness, breathing feeling into her fingertips, and she snaked her hand around his arm, almost desperate to feel his solid form despite what she must do. It was late, and Arthur had fallen asleep, but she was not the least bit tired.

"Ned," she whispered and rested her cheek on his shoulder. He raised her hand to press his lips to her wrist.

He was so very dear to her. When she could, over the years she had not insisted that he tell the truth, had not wished to dig up the past and cut him with more pain, just as he had let her demons alone when she had asked it.

Yet the gods were fickle. She should know that better than most, but the years had made her careless. She would do well to remember that her child who skipped and laughed one day could lie cold and lifeless the next. There could be no more waiting—no more delay.

**O~O~O~O~O**

Another week, Robert had said. Another week and they truly must be leaving. Ned could not fault him. There was a kingdom to run.

Ned was lost as ever as he rose from the damp cold ground the godswood. He came here every day now when he was not attending to urgent business or sitting with his daughter, but his gods had no answers for him. The weirwood stared at him with its unseeing red eyes, taunting and accusing. He had made promises. He had not kept them. He did not dare think that his daughter lay as still as death in her chambers because he had been a coward.

He had forgotten the weight of grief and bone-crushing fear over the years, but those burdens had not forgotten him. Once again they settled on his shoulders and dug their roots into his flesh. These last days, when he found himself sleeping, his dreams were haunted by smoke and blood and the sounds of pleading, as if he were twenty once more. When he awoke, discomfited and bleary, for moments he would be unsure if the leaden ball of fear that dropped into his stomach was for his sister or his daughter.

Ned had always found shades of Lyanna in all his girls: Sansa with her love of songs and stories; Arya and her romance for swordplay and war; and Elia—oh it was Elia who was his sister incarnate—full of curiosity and mischief and a delight for her life.

He had come home from war against Balon Greyjoy to the calls of _Lya, Lya_ echoing through the halls and nearly collapsed from the sickening shock of loss. For months afterwards, a horrified Ashara had tried to correct the children, but there had been nothing she could do.

A name given in childhood grew on you and could never be peeled away. Over the years, the pain had lost its edge, like a jagged edge sanded round and smooth. Sometimes, Ned found, to hear his sister's name in the walls of Winterfell once more surrounded him in a sweet, intoxicating sense of memory, and on those days he could even be glad for Elia's wayward nickname.

And Elia alone—when she rode beside him over the hills, hair wild and laughter dancing; when she sat on his lap and smiled that impish smile, speaking about each little discovery as if she had found the keys to the very sun—she could make him forget that he had ever felt the biting weight of sorrow.

Yet he could never bring himself to call her Lia as his children did—as Ashara sometimes slipped when her mind was occupied elsewhere. It was one matter to hear the ghosts of his childhood past. It was another entirely to feel Lyanna's name on his own tongue and smell the blood and smoke and roses.

He made his way up the stone steps, his legs heavy with the cold and damp of the forest ground. He wondered if Ashara would still be up reading, or if she would be sitting in the dark, staring at Elia as if her gaze could revive her. He did not know which he preferred—both scared him.

Ned opened Elia's chamber door and stepped into the night-black of the room. With the sliver of light, he found Ash sitting by the bed, her eyes catching a glint of the candle flame. She turned towards him, and he was glad it was dark, for he could not see the pallid cast of her skin and the strain about her eyes. Slipping down next to her, he felt her hand on him. It was ice cold.

"Ned," she said as he raised her hand to his lips.

"What is it, my love?"

For a moment she was silent, though the air around them had shifted as if taking in the night chill.

"You have to tell him," she finally said, her voice so soft it blended into the dark, but he heard her as clear as day. Cold washed through his insides, but there was no shock there. Somehow he had known when he walked in this night that she would demand this of him.

"You have to tell Jon. I could not bear to press you all these years, but now…it is past time you told him. And if you do not, I swear to your gods and mine that I will."

**000**

He waited for his son in Ashara's library, feeling as if he waited for an executioner to ascend the stone steps. No. Not his son. Jon. Not his son by rights, but his heart spoke otherwise.

_If you love him as your son, you owe him this truth. For too long, you have lied for the sake of your selfish fear._

Maybe he really was a coward. Ned certainly felt like one as he heard the chamber door open, icy, fiery dread prickling his skin.

Jon stepped into the round room, tall and lean as Rhaegar had been, but his eyes were Lyanna's and so was that bemused little frown that appeared on his face when he looked around to find them alone.

"Father? You wished to speak to me...here?"

For a moment the words stuck in his throat. Ned wished to let the word "father" hang in the air for just a moment longer, wanted to hear Jon say it again and again, for he did not know if he ever would after this day.

Ned had promised Lyanna he would tell Jon the truth about his father when the boy came of age. Jon was seventeen now, yet he had not been able to bear telling Jon that he, Ned Stark, was not his father in truth.

He tilted his chin to the opposite chair, and Jon sat, looking at him expectantly. Ned took a deep breath. The air burned.

"Jon, there is something you must know."

He lunged forward to grip Ned's knee, his brows knitted, his voice panicked.

"Is it Lia? Has she—but I hadn't heard—and where's—"

"No," Ned choked out, squeezing his hand. "No, it is not your sister."

His relief was palpable, the tension leaving his body as he slumped back in his chair. The expectant, questioning gaze was back.

"Tell me," Ned said, his voice dry, almost pained. "What do you know of my sister Lyanna?"

Whatever Jon had been expecting, it had not been this. His eyebrows shot to his hairline and he blinked as if his question had come flying into his face. Ned swallowed down the pang of recognition. Lyanna used to make that very expression over the slightest surprise.

"I…um…Prince Rhaegar kidnapped her after he crowned her queen of love and beauty at the Tourney at Harrenhal. Uncle Brandon and Grandfather went to King's Landing to get her back, but the mad king killed them both. That's how Robert's Rebellion started." Jon peered up at him then, tentative concern in his eyes. He hesitated, his hands fiddling with his sleeve.

"Aunt Lyanna died before you could bring her home. Uncle Ben…Uncle Ben told me that's why he joined the Watch. For grief of her."

For a moment Ned shut his eyes against the guilt. He had not been able to stop the loss of the last of his siblings. Benjen was convinced that Lyanna's death had been his fault, but no matter how one played this game of assigning blame, Ned would always be the one who had caused it all.

"That is what the bards sing," he told Jon now. "That is what the histories will write. But today, I will tell you the truth, and you must swear on your honour as a man that you will not repeat my words to anyone save your family."

Jon's eyes had grown wide, soft grey and glistening in the daylight, but he nodded solemnly.

"I swear it on my honour."

"Very well. Know this then. Lyanna was not kidnapped by Rhaegar. In the end, I believe she loved him."

He told Jon all then, from Lyanna's exploits as the Knight of the Laughing Tree at Harrenhal to how he had been sent her whereabouts in Dorne, not shying from his own role in Lyanna's unhappy engagement. He told Jon the story Ashara had once told him, of their time hiding at Summerhall, of Elia Martell’s letter, of their vows before the Old Gods—not truly a marriage by law, but the marriage Lyanna had wanted. Jon only stared wide-eyed and said not a word.

"I travelled to Dorne with six of my best men," he continued. "Only one made it back alive. At the base of this tower on the Prince's Pass, three members of Aerys' Kingsguard waited for us. We slew them to get to my sister."

Jon seemed gripped by the story, but now he left out a soft gasp.

"It's true then? The stories the soldiers tell? It was you who killed Ser Arthur Dayne?"

Ned closed his eyes once more. Never had he answered his children's questions on the matter, and even Arya had never been so thoughtless as to ask their mother. He nodded.

"Yes. It was. I brought his sword back to your mother at Starfall, but that is not the story I wish to tell today."

"No. I'm sorry. Please, go on."

"When I got up to that tower room, I found my sister there. Wylla was with her, and Old Yli. Attending her. She…she was dying."

Never had he formed those words. Never had he needed to recount this tale. Ned hoped never to do it again. The very telling made him ache.

Jon seemed to war with himself for a moment, but eventually he spoke.

"What…what did she die of?"

"Loss of blood. Childbed fever."

Jon was frowning again.

"Childbed fever…I don't understand, Father. If she…did the babe survive? What has become of my cousin?"

"Yes, Jon," said Ned, and the dead weight of finality settled in his chest. "That babe did survive. I brought him home and called him my bastard son."


	26. What He Was, What He'd Done

They had been four, perhaps five the first time Robb asked _Amma_ why he alone had to have orange hair when everyone else’s hair was normal. Jon had listened in grisly shock as their mother explained that she had not carried either of them in her belly as she had Sansa and Arya. They were both the sons of other women, and those other women had died. 

She had told Robb of a Lady Catelyn then, whose hair was bright and fiery like his. Their father had kept a miniature of the lady, and when she showed it to them Jon had seen that her eyes and colouring and freckles were just like Robb’s. 

“She was strong and beautiful and loved you most fiercely, Robb. If you want to know about her, you may ask your Uncle Brynden. Of those at Winterfell, he knew her best.”

Yet when it came to the woman who had carried Jon, _Amma_ only kissed his forehead and gave him a sad smile. 

“Her name is not mine to tell, my darling. One day, your father will tell you all about her. Just know now that she loved you with all her heart.”

Jon had not understood why ‘one day’ could not be that very day, so in the evening he had found his father in his solar and blurted out the question before he even closed the door. He could not quite remember the look on his father’s face—only that Jon had suddenly known he had said something terribly wrong. Father had looked at him for a long time, Jon thinking he did not truly see him, and then had told him that they would speak of his birth mother when he was old enough. That had been the end of it. 

Oh, he had wondered over the years. It burned, the curiosity, on the rare occasions the thought came to his mind, and more intensely as he had grown older. Yet Jon had never broached the subject with Father again. Over the years, he had come to the silent conclusion that his father was ashamed of lying with another woman when Robb’s mother had been his wife. If that were the case, Jon did not know if he wished to hear his father speak of her. 

Jon did not like to imagine who his birth mother had been. If he allowed himself to start imagining as he lay in the darkness at night, his mind was wont to fall into endless possibilities of faces and eyes, of different smiles and hands and voices, and all of it made his head and chest ache. So he did not play this pondering game and shut out the rumours as best as he could. 

Yet in all his imaginings, not once, not _once_ had he considered this…this…he did not even know what this was. He could not think straight. This could not be real. Jon had most certainly eaten some poisonous mushroom or caught an incurable disease and was in the throes of a delusional fever dream. 

His body even burned as if he were fevered, and sweat broke out on his neck, prickling like shards of ice. For some moments the world before him rocked like a storm-tossed boat. 

“Jon? Are you…you have not said a word.”

“Father. I—I don’t—I don’t understand…” 

_No, if he speaks true, he is not your father. And when, Jon Snow, has Eddard Stark spoken anything but the truth?_

But then…all his life…

“I don’t understand,” he murmured again, not really hearing his own voice. 

“Don’t you, Jon?”

“You are…You are telling me that I am not your bastard son?” he asked stupidly.

“Yes, Jon.”

He shook his heavy head, but that only made the sickening spinning worse. 

“Rhaegar Targaryen was my father…Lyanna Stark was my mother?… But…surely you would have told me. I don’t understand.”

“Don’t you?” his father asked again, very quiet. 

“You know of the things Tywin Lannister’s men did to Rhaegar’s other children. I just told you the story again myself. What do you think the king would have done to you if he’d known about you?”

 _Rhaegar’s other children,_ Jon thought numbly. He had known what Armory Lorch and Gregor Clegane had done to those children. The old soldiers told stories of how they had laid them bloody and mutilated before King Robert. Every boy in the kingdom had heard of the trial between the gallant Ser Paten Dalt and the child-slaying disgrace of a knight that had been Armory Lorch. Every boy had boasted at least once that one day he would sail to Essos and be the one to find and slay The Mountain who Rides. 

Jon knew those stories. Jon had not known they were his siblings that Lannister men slew. 

Prince Aegon and Princess Rhaenys. _His siblings._ No. No, this was wrong. This was a cruel and horrible mistake. His brothers were Robb and Arthur. His sisters were Sansa and Lia and Arya. His father was Ned Stark. Wasn’t it?

_Not my father._

“No. No!” He felt himself leap to his feet, his fists clenched, face suddenly burning. “Why—why are you lying to me? I am not…I am not the son of some Targaryen prince, I’m not, I’m not!”

This wasn’t funny. Was he playing some joke on Jon? Who was this man before him, pretending to be Father, telling him these wild lies?

“You’re lying! Tell me you’re lying! Please!” And he did not know if he demanded or pleaded. 

Father only looked up at him with indescribable sorrow in his eyes. 

_Not my father._

For a moment, he reached into this doublet and pulled out a small leather pouch, faded with age. Jon watched, half mesmerised, as he untied the string and emptied the contents onto his hand. A ring. A signet ring, gold inlaid with shiny black onyx.

He held it out to Jon, who, by reflex, extended a shaking hand. 

The ring was bitterly cold and heavy, and Jon wanted to throw it out the narrow library window. Instead, he brought it to his face. Before him was the three-headed dragon he had seen in history books over the years, detailed gold on onyx, the two curling tails of the beast making little black circles that stared up at him in mocking accusation. 

“It was Rhaegar’s. Before that, it belonged to Aegon V Targaryen. Rhaegar gave it to Lyanna when he left her in that tower in Dorne. All these years I have kept it beneath her statue in the crypts. It would be wise if you returned it there, but Rhaegar left it for you. His son.”

 _Rhaegar’s son. Jon Snow the Targaryen bastard._ The thought rolled ridiculously in his mind, and Jon would have laughed at it if he did not wish even more to scream.

Aegon V Targaryen. Some ancestor of his. Rhaegar Targaryen. His father. 

_Not my father._

Jon felt his brow twist painfully. He stared down at Lord Stark. 

“You lied to me.” Sudden anger licked at his throat. “My entire life! You lied!”

He seemed to flinch. Jon must have yelled again, he thought distantly, but he could barely hear his own words over the rushing blood in his ears.

“I could not risk anyone knowing.”

Jon could not breathe. His throat had closed, and he did not know where he found the air to speak. And _Amma?_ Had she known? _Her name is not mine to tell,_ she had said. Of course she knew. She had lied too. 

“I am…I am seventeen. I would have kept the secret. For years now, I could have, but…you kept lying! Why did you lie?”

How could he have lied for so long? To Jon himself? His father who was always honourable and right, lying all Jon’s life.

Oh, he could hear his own voice now, and he hated that it sounded like a lost, petulant child.

“I am sorry, Jon,” was all Lord Stark could say. 

“Why now?” Jon choked out. The ring was wrong in his hand. He reached out to give it back, wanting to get rid of the sick feel of the metal on his palm, but it clattered to the stone floor. Lord Stark stared at it for a long moment before rising to pick it up. Jon did not move. 

“I should have told you when you turned sixteen,” he heard him say. “It was past time you knew.”

Every word his father— _not my damn father!—_ spoke gripped at his throat, strangling, and suddenly Jon could not bear the confines of these walls. Never had Winterfell felt so alien and cold—never had he felt as if he was not welcome in this place he called home—yet now the stones that had always been comforting made him ill. He needed to get out. Right now, he needed to leave, or he thought he might die.

“Jon.”

His feet stumbled to a stop at the door and turned, his body acting of its own accord. Lord Stark stood, one hand half outstretched, the other chaining him to his chair.

“I—I know I have upset you deeply. But please—” For a moment he opened his mouth, but no words came. Finally, he continued. 

“Be careful, Jon. We are still hosting the king.”

Suddenly, Jon saw with clarity how weary his father looked. There was grey sprinkled in his hair now, and lines etched his face, tugging at his eyes and mouth. When had he aged so? It seemed like only yesterday that Jon had seen him tall and broad atop his horse, the warrior lord in all his strength. 

Mutely, Jon nodded, the bones in his spine creaking as if stuck. He turned again, but then a horrifying thought occurred to him. 

“Is my name even Jon?” he asked, his voice small. He could not even bear to face his father. “Did—did Lyanna—my mother…did she even…”

“She named you Aemon.” Father’s voice was low. “I gave you the name Jon.”

 _Not my father. Not my name._ Did he even know who he was?

_A lie. A lie. All of it, a bloody lie. And so am I._

**000**

He had just stepped into the courtyard when crunching footsteps approached from behind and Robb emerged beside him. Jon’s feet were suddenly nailed to the ground, his body rigid.

“There you are,” said Robb, hand on his shoulder. “I’ve been looking for you. Where’d you disappear to?”

Jon found he couldn’t look at his—look at Robb at all, and stared resolutely at his boots. 

“I just…went to sit with Lia ,” he lied, finding it easier than having to say the word ‘father’ aloud. Robb tensed and sucked in a sharp breath.

“Oh, no, what’s happened?” he asked, voice tight, and Jon finally forced his eyes up at him to see him peering worriedly at Jon’s face. 

“What? Nothing’s happened. There’s been no change with Lia.”

Robb frowned still but seemed to relax. 

“Then why do you look like that?”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know, like…” He shrugged. “You sure nothing’s bad’s happened?”

Jon bit his tongue so hard he tasted blood. 

“Nothing bad.”

“Everything alright with you?”

_No. No, no, no. Nothing would ever be fucking alright again._

“Aye.”

They walked for a few moments in an awkward silence, his brother— _not my brother—_ clearly sensing something was strange with him, but, being Robb, did not pry. Finally, he spoke, a forced brightness in his voice. 

“Mikken came to find me. Says he’ll need some specifications for the blade. I don’t have the time with all the lordly business, but I told him I’d send you to the forge.”

Their big undertaking. It had been at the forefront of Jon’s and Robb’s plans since it was announced the girls and Arthur would be heading to King’s Landing, but Jon had forgotten about it completely this day. He tried to summon a smile, but his face was stiff. He only nodded.

“Theon is still ‘refining’ his design for the hilt, or so he says, but promises it’ll be perfect for her hand. I have no idea how he’ll get the measurements right without her knowing, but he seems confident enough. And Sam says he’s decided on using the deer leather after all. Much more supple, so there’s more give, which the blade will need.” 

Jon nodded again, barely hearing him. They had rounded through the courtyard now, and he could feel Robb frowning beside him. 

“Where are you going, anyway?”

“The godswood.”

“Why?”

“I…I need to, that’s all.”

A concerned pause.

“You sure everything is al—”

“Yes, damnit Robb, stop asking!”

Robb stumbled back like Jon had punched him, and at once Jon felt the pang of accidentally injuring his partner in a sparring match. 

“Sorry,” he heard himself mumble, but he found he simply could not raise his eyes again to face Robb. If he did, the words might fly out of his mouth, and if he told Robb the truth, all this terrible knowledge would well and truly be real. Robb would be Jon’s brother no longer. If he told Robb the truth, he really would be the son of Rhaegar Targaryen, and all his own siblings would be dead. 

“Sorry,” he managed once more, and took off running towards the godswood, leaving Robb standing alone in the yard. 

**000**

Jon stared at the bleeding eyes of the weirwood for what seemed an eternity. His insides were tossed upon a storm that would not die. He had always found peace here in this godswood, but it seemed this was not his godswood to find comfort in any longer.

Finally, he had looked away from the eyes dripping with red and sat upon the rock before it, staring off into nothing. It was still better to be here than anywhere else in the castle. Jon felt more alone than ever before, but he felt made for this loneliness.

He was not sure how long it was that he sat there upon the rock, Lord Stark’s words running one after another in his mind, over and over, spinning and making him dizzy. 

"Jon?"

He whipped his head around at his name. His mother— _is she?_ —was standing some feet away, looking at him with her quiet concern.

" _Am_ —"

The word had nearly tumbled out before Jon remembered himself and shut his mouth again. Could he still call her _Amma_ if Ned Stark was not his father? 

He saw her flinch. He looked away, immediately swallowed in shame.

"May I join you?"

He nodded, and heard the rustle of wool as she seated herself by him.

"Will you refuse to call me _Amma_ now?" Her voice was low, but he heard the slight shake of it. Jon swallowed.

"It means ‘mother’ in the Rhoynish," he said.

"It does."

His jaw tightened.

"You are not my mother."

He heard her intake of breath, sharp and pained, and when he looked up she had turned the full force of her purple eyes on him, piercing like stone. His chest pulled with guilt.

"You’ve known all your life that I did not give birth to you. You still called me _Amma."_

"I..." 

He could not form words. His head was like a ball of tangled yarn, and he did not know what he was feeling—only that it caught in his chest and throbbed like a festering wound.

She sighed and turned towards the black pool.

"Answer me true, Jon. Have you ever felt I loved you less because you are not of my blood?"

"No!" The word rose unbidden, forcing its way from his throat. If nothing else, he was sure of this.

"Then you must know that your—" she hesitated, her lips thinning, but she pressed on. “Your father loves you like he loves the children he sired, no less, no differently. Blood hardly matters, and besides, you are still of his blood.”

Jon couldn’t bear to hear that now. He felt the anger flare again, black and hot and ugly.

"He lied! All my life, he lied!” He snapped to face her. "You lied too! My entire life has been a lie!"

She did not shy away from his outburst, from the accusation bleeding from his words.

"I’m sorry we did," she said simply. "We should not have lied to you for so long. Our reasons are not excuses, but we had reasons nonetheless."

"Yes, to keep me safe, I know," Jon said bitterly. "But I could keep secrets at one and ten, and honourable Lord Stark still kept up his lie." 

"Oh Jon, do you really think we believed you could not keep the secret? No, we did not tell you because we are selfish. You father could not bear you finding out. ‘Not just yet,’ he told me when I asked. He wanted just a few more years of the blissful ignorance.”

He could not bear this thought either.

"He’s not my father," Jon muttered, and something ugly twisted in his chest. He was not certain if it was guilt for voicing the words or grief for the truth of them.

"And you...you are my aunt,” he said, voice low. “Lord Stark is my uncle, so you are my aunt."

Silence. Then he heard her trembling sigh, and the guilt dug further in his gut. He wondered if he had finally said too much—gone too far. She deserved none of this. All she had ever done was love him, and here he sat, telling her she meant nothing to him aside from being his father’s wife. _My uncle’s wife._

For a hopeless moment, he thought she would surely leave, and he would truly be alone with the ugly truth of who he was.

Instead, after a moment Jon felt her arm wrap around his shoulder, drawing him into her. He could not resist. She was warm and wonderful, and when she spoke, there was a fierce edge to her voice that felt safe.

"I will always be a mother to you. Nothing else matters save that you are you, Jon. Do you understand? Nothing needs to change. Not…not if you don’t want it to.”

The relief was instant, almost blinding, like waves crashing into him, and Jon felt his eyes sting. It was the same, he determined. With his mother, anyway. She would always be the one he had run too when he’d won at sparring or found a particularly pretty rock in the river; the one who’d kissed his forehead when he skinned his knee and encouraged him until he finally managed to sail a boat upriver. Mutely, he nodded.

"I...I’m sorry. _Amma,_ I’m sorry.”

She shook her head.

"It hurts. I can only imagine. Don’t apologise."

It was a long while before he spoke again. 

“Did you always know?”

“Yes. I was with Lyanna for many months. I…I promised her I would see her through her pregnancy, but…” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “Some things man cannot control, as much as we try. I was there five months, but in the sennight I was called back to Starfall, her labour came early and she was gone in days.”

Jon felt a shiver up his spine, and again the guilt came, heavy and damp. All this time he had not given Lyanna Stark a single thought. _My father, my father Rhaegar_ he had recited like a curse in his head, but his mother…he finally knew her name, this woman he had wondered about over the years, and he had not had the mind to pay her any heed. 

“What was she like?”

“A lot like your sisters, really,” she said, and Jon felt himself wince, though he tried to hide it. They were no longer his sisters.

“She was wild and spirited and full of life. Beautiful, and a dreamer, and stubborn, so stubborn. They called her a centaur, for she seemed at one with her horse. Your father told you of what she did at the Tourney at Harrenhal, did he not? Can you imagine, a girl with no training, unseating knights twice her age? She was so proud of herself for that. And she was kind, with more honour than many men I have known. You know, she played the knight to restore justice for her father’s bannerman? Her heart had enough room for the world, it seemed.”

Jon listened intently as she spoke, and every word was like a gemstone that he carefully tucked away. 

“When we were at the tower, she was…she was so happy to be a mother. She was young—younger than you are now—but she was always smiling when she spoke of her child.”

He went cold.

And when she knew she was dying? What did she think of her child then, Jon wanted to ask. She was so happy to be a mother, but bringing him into the world had killed her.

“Did she truly love Rhaegar?” he said instead, voice very low. “Is what they tell us of history really false?”

“She did. As a girl, she loved him, and he loved her too. It was the love of stories and spring, of flowers and music and the carefree. It did not have the chance to grow into something solid and capable of withstanding storms and war, I think. She was so very young.”

Jon’s head swam, though through the grey-red haze he thought he could picture her, young and laughing, with eyes and hair just the colour of his. She was galloping over the dales around Winterfell, laughing the way Lia always did. He wanted to know her, he thought distantly, and to hear her voice, but with his very existence, he had deprived so many of her life. 

“You can visit her in the crypts,” he heard _Amma_ say. “I think her statue is a true likeness. You might wish to leave flowers for her. She was most fond of flowers.”

Jon felt himself nod, though it was with great effort, for he suddenly felt all his strength had drained from him like blood. 

His mother stood then.

“Will you come back to the castle?”

“I think I should like to stay here a while longer.” He did not know how he managed to get the words out. His tongue was numb and his mind was sluggish.

“Very well.” She smoothed a lock of hair from his forehead, her fingers the only warmth around him. 

“Come back when you are ready, Jon. I know it has been hard and unjust for you, but your father loves you, and so do I, and so do your siblings. Nothing need change.”

Jon kept his eyes trained on the mossy ground, and after a moment, her footsteps started back to the castle. Once more, he was all alone with who he truly was and the things he had done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Welcome to Jon’s mind: Teenage angst x1000. This won’t even be the end of it. If you think Jon’s going to get over this identity crisis and guilt and lack of purpose anytime soon…idk man, you’re going to be really disappointed in me.


	27. Falling, Falling, Flying

Lia was falling. That was how she knew she was dreaming. When she was awake, Lia never fell. And besides. Arthur was holding on to her. 

This dream felt real though, real and long and pitch black like the Winterfell crypts, and she was falling fast, wind roaring in her ears and stinging her cheeks.

 _Fly,_ came a pockmarked voice close to her ear. How amusing. Lia could do a great many things, but she did not know how to fly. 

The black was paling around her, and soon grey, smoky mist twisted like dancing snakes before her. Strange. She had dreamed of falling before, but never through this sort of darkness. It was cold, this sky through which she dropped, and sunless. Her face hurt, and her fingers and toes were stiff from the wind. For the first time, Lia was aware that she was very, very alone. 

“Arthur?” She did not like how small her voice was.

_Arthur Stark is not here. There is only you._

“If it’s only me, then who are you?”

_Too many questions. Fly, Elia Stark, before you fall._

She chuckled into the nothingness and rolled her eyes.

“Silly, I won’t fall. This is only a dream.”

 _And if it isn’t?_ asked the voice. 

When she really looked again, she saw the ground below her, hazy and brown in the distance. It was thousands of miles away, surely, but still, Lia thought it was closer than it had been. She couldn’t see the ground before. She felt her smile fade. Something like fear settled in her stomach.

“I…I’m a person, not a bird. I can’t fly.”

_How do you know? Have you tried?_

The voice was high and thin as a bowstring. Lia looked around, trying to see where it was coming from. A crow circled around her, following her down as she fell. Beyond the bird, she could see mountains now, their snow-covered tops white like bone. In the dark woods, a river glinted like silver thread. Closer. She was closer to the ground than ever before, and suddenly she did not know if her eyes watered from the wind or the sinking dread.

_Best fly before it’s too late._

“Easy for you to say,” she snapped. “You were born with wings.”

_Maybe you were, too._

Frowning, she twisted her head around to look at her back, her stiff arms wrapping around her shoulders, searching for feathers. 

_Not wings like mine,_ said the crow, but she ignored him. 

Her arms were strange, she saw—too thin, and the skin on them sallow-looking. She stared at her fingernails. Too long, and too clean, surely. And where had her callouses gone? She tried to remember. Suddenly, other voices broke through the mist: a woman’s, moaning as if she were in a soft sort of pain, and a man’s, golden with laughter. "All this talk is getting very tiresome, sister. Come here and be quiet."

Lia gasped, for she knew the woman was not in pain, and for a second she did not know if she was falling down or up, and her head exploded in luminous pain. The crow came at her then, cawing and beating the air about her, his feathers surely cutting bloody lines on her cheek. The voices faded from her mind, sand slipping through fingers, and no matter how she tried Lia could not hold them.

“Hey! I needed to remember that!"

_No, forget that, forget it. You mustn’t remember that now._

_“You can’t just—“_ Yet he could—he _did_. He pecked at the burning, bloody spot on her forehead, pecking, pecking, until he pulled the memory clean out of her head like a worm. The feeling made her stomach churn, and wet dread squished in her gut. 

_“_ You _…_ vile _…pig!”_

_I’m a crow, in reality._

She sniffed, determined to remain dignified in the face of such mortification, and her vexation pushed out the fear. 

"Just as well. I’ve offended pigs by calling you one. You’re much uglier." 

_Is that any way for a young lady to speak, Elia Stark?_

“Stop calling me that. Only Father and _Amma_ call me that.”

_It is your name. It is what I will call you._

“Why must you call me anything at all?”

_Because I am teaching you how to fly._

“I told you, I can’t fly!”

_You’re flying now._

“I’m falling!”

_To fly you must first fall. Look down._

She did not wish to look down. 

_LOOK DOWN!_

For a moment she persisted, but curiosity took over, and she complied. How she wished she had not. 

The cold swooped beneath her skin, burrowing into her back and neck and stomach. She was going to be sick. The ground came spinning up to meet her, a tapestry of browns and greens dusted with white and sprinkled with humanity. All was crisp before her eyes, coming closer and closer, faster and faster. The trees were hung suddenly with bones, thousands of white bones, the bones of all those before her who had crashed and left their broken bodies amid the woods. She screamed, her voice dying as soon as it left her mouth, but then the green of the forest engulfed her, and suddenly Lia was falling no longer. 

She was running, hooves thumping the soft soil, and the wind no longer cut her skin but smoothed against her winter pelt, cooling her sweating hide. The woods thinned around her, and she came to a clearing where the dew winked in the morning sun, a rainbow in each droplet. She came across a boulder, and stuck out her tongue to lick the salty ambrosia from its surface.

In a flash, she was off once more, but this time her movements were bouncing and light, and her paws before her were white as daisies. She heard everything in the forest—every rustle of a branch, every chirp of a cricket and splash in the nearby lake. She heard, too, the screaming barks of foxes, and felt the fear spur her legs as she ran faster. 

Then she was no longer running, but hopping, her toes slick, gripping onto the muddy ground. In an instant she dove into the lake, her strong legs kicking out behind her, propelling her forward, until she had legs no more, but a tail that swished as she scoured the water for feed. 

The water blurred, swirling, and she was dry again, and solid ground was beneath her paws, firm and cool. Smells were vivid in her mind—the sharp resin of pines, the first touch of rot on the fallen leaves, the delicious musk of rabbits scampering through the brush. She walked forward though, over the mossy softness, and suddenly she was home, for she could smell her littermates and humans through her twitching nose, and the place her mother used to lie. She knew this place, this endless rock built by men looming before her, and she followed the familiar smells through its opening and up its stony ridges. 

Human voices blended like water in her ears, but each scent was distinct, and she knew when she passed the male with fire on his head, or the male who smelled of heat even though his eyes were grey, or the tall female who plucked sweet berries of sound from the vines of her strange tree. 

She padded through the stone caves, and no one challenged her. She wished to find her girl. Her girl had not played with her in many days, for all she did was sleep. Yet before she could come to the wooden wall that usually stood in her path, a voice called to her, high and thin, and suddenly all was a blur of intoxicating smells and sounds until there was nothing but chill air. 

The crow was back, circling her, and Lia cried out, her stomach swooping, her insides a mushy mess. She was falling once more. 

_Fly, girl, fly,_ cawed the crow. 

“But…I…”

Yet suddenly it was the easiest thing in the world, flying, for instead of arm she, too, had wings. They were covered in downy feathers that fluttered in the wind, and when she turned her head she saw they stretched wide into the endless blue of the winter day. 

She laughed then, and the sound was a sharp call escaping her beak. 

“Oh, I _can_ fly!” she wanted to say, but her tongue could not make human words, not now. She soared above the expanse of man-rock filled with humans, small as stars, and onwards she flew, over the dales and woods and the red leaves of the oldest tree that had been here since before her mother’s mother a thousand times over had flown through these skies. 

South she flew, over rivers and marshes, their damp smells of mud and strange flowers wafting up like steam. Further, and there was the island on the lake, but she dared not fly over it, for there was something ancient and unknown amid the ageless trees. South, south, over rustling forests and fields of marigolds and wheat, and south still, until there were mountains the colour of oxblood, and beyond that the sands that blew heat and dust into her eyes. 

She turned east then, over stony foothills, and before her the sea opened up, churning and endless, dotted with pebbles for islands. Her talons had turned to red webbed feet, her feathers from rusty brown to grey. When she opened her mouth, she tasted the salty air and met it with a squawking, jubilant cry. 

She glided over the sea, feeling the warm caress of the air soft on the soft fuzz of her head, and she felt herself shiver with pleasure, shaking out her feathers. When she surveyed the new expanse of land, she was suddenly small, or huge, or fierce, or timid, and she had talons of a hundred different sizes and feathers of brown or black or blue or cream. 

Below her were flatlands and deserts, and man-rocks gilded with snow-white stone and golden sun. And beyond that was an ocean of waving grasses, sprinkled with men on horses, and farther still were seas the colour of jadestone, and a cluster of rocks made from the night itself, shrouded in darkness, where she dared not go. Creatures fiercer than she stirred there, hot and deadly. 

Finally, she headed north, the wind chilling even under her blanket of down. On and on she soared, the man-wall of ice glistening like a solid sea, yet she could fly higher than man could ever build. She pressed on, over the trees bowing with the weight of snow on their limbs, over the frozen rivers and fields that yielded not a single mouse. The white expanse was resplendent, shimmering and grand, and she laughed again, her calls bouncing across the snow. 

She stopped then, half blinded by light, for surely she was at the end of the world. A waterfall of the coldest cold stretched before her. 

_Fly on,_ the sliver of the girl inside heard a thin voice say. _Fly on._

But the girl would not fly on. There was nothing but lightless death beyond, and she knew that if she saw that death there would be no more laughter. Only despair. The girl would not fly on. 

_Impertinent girl, do as I say_

“I don’t want to,” Lia whispered. “You can’t make me.”

And at once she was no longer soaring over the snow but falling once more, falling through a darkness so complete now that even the grey mist did not swirl. 

_Impertinent girl!_ cawed the infernal crow. _You did not fly beyond. You did not see it all. It will not do._

“No,” said Lia, and despite his vexed gaze she beamed at him. “I have seen enough, and it was wonderful. I need not see more. That would ruin it all.”

Falling, still falling, yet somehow Lia was cold no longer. Her hands touched fabric, she thought, and her feet were toasty warm. 

_I am not done with you. You flew, when so many others fell. You will see._

“You can’t make me,” Lia said again, but the crow was flying far from her, and she only heard the thin voice like a wisp of grey smoke.

_Do not be so sure._

A sliver of cold embedded itself into her chest, and Lia shivered. For a moment she was very, very afraid, but the crow had gone, and soon the fear had faded too.

She did not know if she fell now or simply floated, suspended in softness. A sliver of jewelled light opened in the darkness, stretching wider and rounder, until finally Lia stared into heather-purple eyes so light they were almost blue. Her head spun, fuzzy like frosted windows, but those eyes were bright and sharp, and she knew them as well as her own mind. 

“Arthur?”

Fingers came up to rub at those eyes. 

“Am I dreaming?”

“I was just dreaming. You’re clearly not.”

Silence. Then, 

“ _Lia?”_

She smiled at him, though it was a great effort to move her face. So shocked he was. It was always fun when Art’s face looked as if you had broken his brain. 

The room around her exploded then, her mother’s and father’s cries enveloping her until she was heated through and through. A wet tongue was on her face, and she felt hot tears on her shoulder, but she was too dizzy and weak to care much. The bed was soft beneath her legs, but solid, and all around her were familiar arms and warm, wonderful voices, none of them like the pockmarked sound that still echoed at the base of her head. 

Her father clutched her to him now, his chest solid like a wall, and Lia was reminded how silly she had been to ever feel afraid. Over his strong shoulder, she saw Arthur standing at the foot of her bed, his face still a mask of shock. Beside him, Dawn cocked his silvery head, curious eyes round. 

“Guess what?” she asked him, and despite her tired body she could feel the laughter bubbling in her chest. Oh, if only he had come with her. It was the one thing that could have made the dream any better. 

“Oh Artie, I can fly!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Hope 2021 is better for all of us. 
> 
> The past couple of months have been actually insane for me and writing this fic. Thank you so much for reading thus far, and a huge thanks especially to those of you who comment. One of the most rewarding things about writing and posting is receiving comments and getting to engage in this fandom with all of you :) 
> 
> And of course, thank you so so so much to my betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina) for helping me come up with ideas and for dealing with writer's antics. I don't think this fic would have progressed this far without you!


	28. Big Brother

“Turn over now, so I can get behind your legs.”

Arya winced as she complied, her sore muscles gnawing, and Yli tutted under her breath before reaching for more cinnamon salve.

“Really, girl, are you trying to kill yourself training? Preparing to run for your life, are you?”

“No,” Arya muttered, though when The Hound had hoisted her flailing into the air and Joffrey had pointed his sword at her, for a flash, she really had thought she was going to die. It had been ridiculous—she knew that now, for if the direwolf had not pounced Ser Roderick or one of her brothers would have tackled him—but that feeling of confused helplessness haunted Arya’s dreams. She hated it. She hated fear. It never helped with anything and only made her sick to her stomach. 

“Ugh, ow…” Yli’s bony fingers dug into her aching leg, and Arya groaned into her pillow. From the side of her bed, Nymeria raised her grey head and made a questioning yelp in the back of her throat. Arya reached over and gave her a pet on the head. 

“Don’t worry,” she said, giving Yli a sideways look. “I’m not dying. Yet.”

“Oh, now you complain. What happened to the tough fighter in the training yard, eh?” asked Yli, not at all fazed by the direwolf watching her with narrowed eyes.

“Well, somehow your massaging always hurts more than anything else,” Arya said peevishly. 

She had been pushing herself in the yard ever since the debacle, determined that should something similar happen again she would not be so helpless. She had been paying for it these past weeks, though with Yli’s salves and massages she was not too stiff. 

Arya was going to make that little blonde shit pay for this, and preferably the burned knight too. The details were still amorphous in her mind, but she had already guilted Sansa into agreeing to help. Arya had forced tears to her eyes and spoken of how frightened the prince had made her feel, and the rest had been easy, for her sister truly had a heart as soft as jam. Arya reached over and mussed Nymeria’s fur once more. Both she and Lem had gotten so big of late and much more attentive to their commands.

Of course, Mouse was now the biggest wolf of the litter, but _Amma_ was sure to keep a close eye on Lia since her accident, and Arya did not think it wise to involve her in case their mother found out. No matter. The trip to King’s Landing would still prove most educational for Joffrey indeed.

“It would serve you well to ride in the wheelhouse for a few days,” said Yli, though they both knew Arya would do no such thing. They wereleaving Winterfell the next day, and Arya was determined to take in every inch of the countryside along the King’s Road. She’d never ridden south of the White Knife, and the wheelhouse windows were too small to see much.

“I can ride,” she protested, rolling her eyes. Yli never fussed so over her brothers. Arya could feel her narrowed gaze on her though, and resolutely pressed her face into the pillow. 

“Well, you’d best not come to me all stiff after riding,” said Yli. “These old bones will be close to falling apart after a day’s rattling.”

“Winterfell’s walls will freeze before you fall apart,” she scoffed. Sure, Yli was old and had great-grandchildren, but she could be no more than seventy, surely. Old Nan was probably a hundred. Now that was really old. 

Yli tutted again and dug her fingers into an especially painful spot. On purpose, Arya was sure. She hissed, but Yli ignored it.

“Cheek. No respect for your elders, just like your mother.” 

Arya peered up at her, smirking despite the pain. 

“If you’re so concerned, why’d you insist on coming with us, anyway? You won’t be rattled at all at Winterfell.” 

_Amma_ was leaving Jeyne Poole and Beth Cassel as chatelaines of Winterfell, but all knew it would really be Wylla making the big decisions for some years, as both were scarcely older than Arya. Yli, however, had made it clear from the very start that she intended on accompanying them to King’s Landing instead of staying with her granddaughter, and _Amma_ always deferred to her wishes. 

Yli gave Arya a very patient look—the kind of look you gave to someone with a slow mind. 

“I have seen Dorne from Sunspear to Starfall, and the North from Bear Island to White Harbour. But the one time I was in King’s Landing I had to treat two hundred different injuries on hotheaded boys and didn’t have a moment to see the city. I intend to see it now,” she announced grandly, “and as much of this land as I can before I die! On your other side now.”

Arya obeyed, groaning as she turned. Yli must be a sorceress or something similar. She had more life and strength in her than many women in their fifties and a taste for adventure to match hers and Lia’s. She would have gone to Essos with Father and the boys that one time if Wylla hadn’t been eight moons with child. 

Arya was secretly very glad that Yli was coming with them, but she was certainly not going to let on now. Nonetheless, it seemed Yli could read her mind, too, and laughed her crackling laugh. 

“Oh, you are thankful I am coming, of course. Who’s going to make moon tea for you if I don’t, eh?”

Arya narrowed her eyes. 

“I know how to make it myself,” she insisted, though not very convincingly. She could make the tea according to Yli’s infallible recipe, but her brews always came out too bitter to keep down, even with honey. Yli laughed again before slathering more cinnamon salve on her skin. It tingled, the sensation at once icy and hot. 

“Besides,” she sighed, trying to relax her leg. “I doubt I’ll even need it. We’ll all have to be really careful in King’s Landing.” Despite what she had told Theon, Arya wasn’t an idiot. With Father’s new position, everyone would be watching her family. She was not yet of age, and unlike her skill with a sword, people would only say nasty things about her character and embarrass Father terribly if her trysts came to light. From what she’d seen of the queen, the Lannisters would pounce on any sign of impropriety like the alley cats they were. 

Yli only gave her a wily smile. 

“Nonsense. You just need to take care not to get caught, that’s all. You think you’re the first girl to dance the secret kipples in that castle? Ask your mother. You’ll see.”

Arya shot her a horrified look. She would, to her dismay, never be able to purge from her mind the day her mother had sat down and explained bedding to her in elaborative detail. Her words themselves had been enlightening, naturally, but that they came from her mother—who was married to her father—

“I’d really rather join the Silent Sisters if it’s all the same to you.”

**000**

Later that day, Arya stood in the middle of her room, folding and refolding her various pieces of leather armour and training breeches. In a rather embarrassing turn of events, it happened that she had more clothes to pack than Sansa did, and it was now looking as if she would not be able to fit everything in one trunk. Her legs still ached, and she had taken to pointing to various articles of clothing and having Nymeria fetch them so she would not need to bend down. 

Lia had come into her room earlier, laughed at her predicament, and offered the spare room in her own trunk ‘if Arya asked her very nicely.’ There was no way in seven hells Arya was going to take her up on that offer. She’d sooner wear five layers of clothes on her back all the way to King’s Landing. She was more thankful than she knew how to put into words that Lia had woken up entirely unscathed, but a few days in and already the near-constant desire to throttle her little sister had returned in full force. 

Nymeria padded over to her with a pair of gloves, and Arya sighed. Maybe she could sneak them into Lia’s trunk when she was distracted. Her sister was not the most observant. Nymeria dropped the gloves on the pile of leathers, but suddenly her ears perked up, and she trotted over to the door, tail beating the air. 

Curious, Arya followed her just in time to hear footsteps coming down the hall. A knock sounded on her door. She swung it open. Outside stood Robb with a grin so bright she thought she might go blind. Behind him stood Theon and Sam, both also grinning, and in the back, Jon’s dark head bobbed above them all. Arya raised an eyebrow. 

“I wasn’t aware I was hosting a council in my chambers.”

They laughed. 

“May we come in, sis?” Robb asked, though Arya was already stepping aside and gesturing them in. 

“To what do I owe the…honour of all your presences at once?” 

The grins grew wider.

“We have a gift for you,” said Robb. “Jon?”

Jon emerged from the back holding a long bundle, a faint smile on his face. It was the first smile from him that Arya had seen in weeks. 

Before she had time to wonder at her brother’s change in demeanour though, her eye was drawn to the bundle Jon now set on her bed—the only surface not covered with clothes. 

“It’s your sixteenth name day in two months' time,” said Robb, “but we won’t be around for that. So.”

Jon pulled the cloth covering aside. 

“We thought we’d give you your present now.”

Arya gasped like a child. 

On her bed lay a rapier, pommel silver and gleaming in the light, wrapped in a dark leather sheath. 

“For me?” She asked under her breath. 

“No, for your direwolf,” said Theon, but Arya couldn’t even roll her eyes at him. Robb and Sam laughed. 

“Of course it’s for you,” said Robb. “We’re beating Father to the gift. Test it out.” 

Father had given Jon, Robb and Theon all swords of their very own on each of their sixteenth name days, and Sam an intricate crossbow from Tyrosh. At times, Arya had hoped her father would present her with a sword at sixteen as well, though she had feared he would not, for in the end, she was not a son. 

All Arya could see now was the beautiful shape of the rapier—it’s elegant lines and gentle curve of the hilt. The sword was surprisingly light, even for its size, the pommel fit perfectly in her hand and the sheath was supple and impossibly soft. It unsheathed without so much as a whisper, and when Arya saw the blade she gasped once more. 

The rapier was straight and thin, it’s symmetrical edges impossibly sharp, but it was the colour of the blade that made her heart speed. The metal swirled with jewel green and the blue of a frozen river, it’s lines like dancing smoke from a brazier of magic and ice. She knew the colours she saw, but she could not quite believe her eyes. The blue of the blade was that of Robb’s sword Frost, and the green was that of Jon’s, which he called Wildfire. 

When Arya had been eight, a comet had appeared in the sky above Winterfell, its tail cutting a glittering arc the colour of the stars. _Amma_ had spent days with Maester Luwin, flipping through all the astrological tomes she had brought with her from Starfall, trying to figure out what such a portent could mean for the North. Every night, the two of them had braved the chill to measure the star’s progress through the sky. 

The castle and town had been alight with talk of what the comet could mean—for the harvests, for the seasons, for the years to come. The previous winters had been relatively short and mild, and thanks to her mother’s pepper cultivation many families had emerged without loss of life and limb—a rare occurrence indeed. 

The Ironborn Rebellion had been put down not three years past, and the North was thriving in the early years of what was shaping to be a long, bountiful summer. This comet was silver like the Stark sigil and blue like summer skies and life, the smallfolk decided. It was a sign of plenty good still to come. It was a sign the Starks were favoured by the gods, and the people of the North were blessed alongside them. 

_Amma_ had come to no real conclusions with her calculations and research, and after some days the comet seemed to fade and plunge slowly into the horizon.

That had seemed the end of it—a good omen, as the direwolf had been—but one day, when Jon and Robb had gone out riding in the woods to the west, they had found a rock the size of a large melon, covered in soot so black it seemed to dim the very air around it. When they approached to pick it up, however, the rock had split in two, and on the inside had been a swirl of shimmering light.

Robb and Jon had brought it back to Winterfell and scrubbed away the soot to reveal the brilliant ore inside. One half had given off an emerald green tint while the other shone deep ice blue. Arya could still remember peering down from her chamber, thinking that the sun had surely fallen into their yard. 

For weeks afterwards, lord and smallfolk alike came to Winterfell to marvel at the two shimmering stones that had fallen from the heavens. Those were days of wonder in the castle. All spoke in hushed tones, as if the very air was holy. Father had spent some hours every day in the godswood. _Amma_ had once again tucked herself away amongst her books, but this time she sent ravens to Dorne too, and every few days another bird would arrive with a letter from Starfall. 

Her Dayne ancestors had crafted Dawn from a falling star. Everybody in the Seven Kingdoms knew that. Around the castle, Arya had heard rumours among the soldiers and visiting lords, whispers of her mother and her mystical blood. Could this meteor, too, be made into swords for the Starks? Was it for Lady Stark that the meteor had streaked across the sky? And was this magic she called down upon the North a blessing or a curse? Arya had wanted to stamp on the feet of those suggesting that her mother could be a curse, but she had contented herself with slipping buckthorn berry juice into their wine instead. 

She knew her parents had written letters to castles all through the kingdoms, yet even Uncle Dev at Starfall could not tell them anything of how Dawn had been forged. Nearly a year after the meteors had been found, Father and the four older boys had sailed down the White Knife towards White Harbour, bound first for Braavos, and then to Qohor. More than once, they had heard that if anyone could work the meteor ore into steel, it would be the magical blacksmiths in the City of Sorcerers. 

Arya had stood before the Winterfell gates, watching the boys ride off for adventure, thinking how unfair the world was. How she had wished she were the one to find the shimmering rocks. At least then she would have played some part, and perhaps been allowed to go to Essos too. As the horses disappeared into the distance, _Amma_ had come behind her and gathered Arya into her skirts. She heard her mother sigh then, a weary sound that had made Arya frown.

“I know you wanted to go,” her mother had said, and Arya knew she would not be able to hide her disappointment. She nodded.

“I cannot begin to tell you how much I want to go as well. I have wanted to see the Free Cities since I was younger than you are now.”

“Why couldn’t you go? Why couldn’t I go?”

“You are too young, love, to care for yourself in travel. And as for me…your father will be gone for months with no reliable way to reach him. There must be someone here making the decisions.”

Arya had pouted up at her, entirely dissatisfied with her answer. 

“I’m not too young,” she had insisted. “I can do nearly everything the boys can.”

Her mother had sighed once more. 

“We must count our blessings, Arya. No one can have everything they desire.”

Months later, the boys had returned with two perfect bastard swords, one glowing a rich green and the other ice blue. They had been the most beautiful weapons Arya had ever seen, even more beautiful than Ice, yet Arya had always known they were never meant for her. Sure enough, on each of their sixteenth name days, Father had given both Robb and Jon one of the swords as gifts.

It was only fair. They had found the meteor after all. Still, over the years, Arya had watched her brothers train in the yard with their beautiful swords and had never quite managed to rid herself of the envy. 

But now…this rapier…this magnificent, green-blue blade…

“How…but your swords...and I thought only the blacksmiths in Qohor knew how to work the meteor into steel,” she breathed, unable to tear her eyes away from it. 

It was Jon who answered.

“That’s true. They were. But when the smith made our swords, there was a good bit of flash left over, and we carried it back with us. The flash had been refolded with their magical spells, just like our blades, and all Mikken needed to do was melt it down and forge it.” She could hear the smile in Jon’s voice, and Arya did not know how this day could possibly get any better. 

“We pored over the specifics of the blade for hours,” Robb was saying now. “Me and Jon. Just to your liking. Theon went through ten sheepskins at least designing the pommel, and Sam found all sorts of old weaponry books to make the sheath easy to strap on even when you’re wearing a gown. And look, here.” Robb’s hand appeared before her eyes, drawing her gaze to the inside surface facing the hilt. Etched on the steel there were two little wolves, a crossbow, and some sort of tentacled creature.

“It’s the four of us, see? The shaded wolf is Jon, the other wolf is me, the crossbow is Sam, and—”

Arya laughed in delight, finally looking up.

“And the squid is Theon. Of course.”

“Oi! That’s a kraken!”

She smirked at him.

“Fine. Kraken then, but only because the pommel is a perfect fit to my hand.”

She went back to gawping at the sword. The afternoon light was bright and pale through her window, and the swirls of colour seemed alive on the blade. _Hers. Her own perfect meteor sword. Just like she’d secretly hoped for all these years._ She still could not believe it. 

“Well?” Sam’s voice sounded behind her, and Arya looked up. “Come on, Arya, don’t keep us in suspense. What do you think?”

A slow smile spread over her lips as she looked from face to beloved face—a smile so wide it made her cheeks ache, but Arya didn’t care. 

“This is the best present I’ve ever gotten. Ever.” 

“Even better than those riding gloves that Father—”

“Ever,” she said again, and suddenly her eyes stung, for she was just now realising that it might be years before she heard Robb’s booming voice or Sam’s half-sardonic quips; felt Theon’s hand on her back or ducked away from Jon messing up her hair. 

Very carefully, she set the blade down on her bed. Arya launched herself at Robb first, and heard the rumble of his surprised laughter in his chest. Next was Sam, who was red-faced when she pulled away, then Theon, and Arya pressed a quick kiss into his neck. And last was Jon, standing to the far side of her bed. There was still something diluted and weary about his smile, but he lifted her off her feet when she embraced him, just as he always did.

The four stayed some time longer, giving Arya tips on sword maintenance and trying not to laugh when Nymeria refused to demonstrate just how helpful she had been in helping Arya pack. They tried out names with her, but none seemed to fit this perfect specimen of a blade. No matter. Arya would have all the time in the world to find a name.

Finally, they agreed that it was time to leave Arya to her losing battle against her trunk. One by one they filed out. Jon was the last one to leave, and the hint of a smile had disappeared from his face once more.

Ever since Lia’s fall, Jon had seemed half angry and half despondent, but even when she’d awakened, he had not recovered. Arya did not understand what unknown terrible thing could have happened. She had tried many times to ask him what the matter was, but Jon was nothing if not stubborn when he wished to be sullen. 

At the last second, Arya called out to him. 

“Jon? Wait.” It would be her last chance to get the truth from him, and she could be just as stubborn as he was. 

He turned, and she slipped behind him to close the door.

“What is it?” But he caught a glimpse of her determined face and seemed to deflate against the wall. 

“Arya, I told you, nothing is…”

“No, something is definitely wrong! You look as if you’ve been told you have greyscale or something!” She felt her face drop and her back grow cold. Damnation, she hadn’t even thought about illness.

“You don’t actually have greyscale, do you? Or some other deathly illness?”

“What? No, of course not.”

She felt her shoulder drop. 

“Well, good. Still—”

“Arya—”

“Is it…was it because Father did not let you go on the hunt? I know…” she bit her lip, unsure how to continue without upsetting him. She’d never broached this subject with Jon before, and to do so now made her feel queasy and wrong. Jon was the best rider in their family save Lia, better even than Arya herself, as loathe as she was to admit it. He should have been leading the hunt with Father, and yet he had been forced to stay behind, all because his name was Snow. The whole notion of bastardy was absurd anyway, and all the Lannisters were puffed up pricks for being offended. 

“I know it makes you angry. It makes me angry too. I don’t understand why all those people care so much about a stupid name. And Father and _Amma_ shouldn’t be so unfair! Who cares if the bloody queen takes offence? What about her offending our family? You’re just as much a Stark as the rest of us.”

Jon, to his credit, let her finish her words, though he was no longer looking at her.

A muggy sort of silence filled the room, stifling and thick. 

“What if I’m not?”

Jon’s voice was so low Arya was sure she’d misheard.

“What?”

He looked up at her then, his grey eyes almost black in the shadows. For a moment he studied her and opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again and shook his head. Finally, he said,

“I know about my mother. The one who gave birth to me.”

Her sharp gasp stung the back of her throat. 

“Father finally told you?”

He nodded.

“I don’t—I don’t wish to speak of her, but if you must know, that is why I might seem…off.”

“Oh, Jon…” 

He quirked the corner of his mouth in a ghost of a grin. 

“So you see? You needn’t worry, Arya.”

Still, he looked so defeated, so _sad_ , and Arya did not know what to say. What could she say? She did not know what it was to wonder all her life about the woman who had given her life. 

Tentatively, she approached him, and to her vast relief he bent down again and pulled her into another embrace. 

“You needn’t worry,” he said again, ruffling the back of her head. “Try not to burn the Red Keep down, would you? I’ll miss you—I’ll miss you, Arya.”

She gave him a teasing pinch on his arm. 

“I don’t burn down buildings anymore. I’m more subtle now.” He chuckled, and she sighed.

“I think I’ll miss you more than anyone else, big brother,” she whispered, “but I’ll deny it if you tell anyone.”

His hand gripped her a little tighter, and Arya felt herself laughing once more. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The next chapter might take a bit longer than usual. I have a...curious POV planned, and it might take me some time to get the feel of it right ;)
> 
> Update: Please see the Character Glossary (part 2 of this series) for an ongoing list of characters, including birth years.


	29. Demon

It was the seventh day after leaving that rocky shit-hole Stark called a castle, and Prince Joffrey of House Baratheon, future king of the Seven Kingdoms, was pleased the eldest Stark girl finally seemed grateful for his favour. He had ordered her presence beside him while he rode, and she had come with a sweet, obedient smile. At last. Something stimulating for his eyes beyond the monotony of the countryside.

In his life at court, Joffrey had seen many a comely face, but Sansa Stark was easily the fairest. The moment he had lain eyes on her, he had felt his heart itch, no matter that Mother had said she had the purple eyes of demons. It was a shame she had been cloistered in the freezing North all these years, but now she was coming south, as she ought. The prettiest faces should always surround him for his enjoyment. 

Joffrey had seen that the Stark girl had been taken by his charm at first glance. As any maiden would be. He had seen it in the way she’d blushed so prettily for him. Oh, she had played coy soon after—no doubt that mother of hers had chided her on proper maidenly modesty—but Joffrey knew he could get her to break sooner or later. He always did with fair maidens, one way or another. 

The infuriating episode with her unnatural bitch of a sister had been a setback—his shoulder still throbbed at times—though it should not have been. If Lady Sansa had been in the yard and seen the insults her sister had perpetrated against her prince, she would have come to Joffrey begging forgiveness. As it was though, she had been up in the keep with her needlework, as was proper for a girl of her station. How Ned Stark could let his second daughter become such an uncouth creature was beyond him. 

Joffrey would have dearly liked to punish the little Stark bitch for her impertinence. If that… _monstrosity_ had not attacked him, he would have doled out _his_ justice right then and there. He wouldn’t have killed her—just given her a few scars, perhaps on that pretty little face. Help her mind her tongue. 

But the Starks were emboldened by the favour Father bestowed too generously on their family. The bitch had remained unscathed, and the beast had been allowed to escape. 

If Joffrey had been king, he would have had the girl stripped in public and whipped for daring to insult him so. He would have burned the woods around Winterfell to the ground and cooked the direwolf alive. He would have made Ned Stark present him the head of the wolf on a platter, then made him eat it. The scar where it had savaged him was still red and blistered. He would carry that forever. One day…one day the Starks would pay. 

But now though…Lady’s Sansa company was not altogether unpleasant. She was a dull creature, to be sure, but Joffrey had never encountered any woman whose words were worth listening to. That was no bother. Women weren’t meant for interesting conversation. When he grew tired of her speaking, her voice was soft enough that he could ignore it and simply enjoy her lovely face and form. 

She covered herself most modestly with furs as they rode side by side, but he had seen the plump curves of her arse and tits beneath her gown in the evenings. He had been wishing to get his hands on her for a moon turn now, but Joffrey was not yet king. He could not do something deemed disrespectful up North. Yet now they had left the North, and soon Lady Sansa would be well within his grasp. 

She would come to him once her father’s watchful eye was turned, he was sure of it. The maidens always did—in the beginning, anyway. 

“…wouldn’t you say, Your Grace?”

Joffrey turned towards her. He had not a clue what she’d said. 

“Yes, you are quite right, sweet lady,” he said anyway, flashing her his approving grin. She smiled back, but bent her head meekly. Joffrey felt his chest itch again, though it was immediately replaced by indignant disgust as his horse reared, and the now-familiar head of Lady Sansa’s mutt came into view. 

He felt himself snarl, but he refused to be cowed by the creature, not after he’d seen his imp uncle behave so chummily with one of the beasts before they had left Winterfell. If a two-foot gremlin could bring them to heel, he, a prince, ought to do better, and so he sat gallantly atop his horse and glared down at the direwolf. Lady Sansa’s beast was not so objectionable, he supposed. Certainly better than the other three, though were it up to him, they would all be dispatched post-haste. 

Gods, what was his father thinking, allowing the Starks to bring four such animals to King’s Landing? And Mother? How incompetent. She could not even convince Father to forbid them this. Already he could see her losing her tenuous grip on Father, who favoured Stark to absurd proportions. When he was king, he would be sure to set them back into their place. Lady Sansa in particular. He’d make sure she always remembered her place, and it wouldn’t be in Dorne.

“To me, Lem. You’ll startle His Grace’s horse,” said Lady Sansa, and Joffrey frowned as the wolf dropped back from him and drew up beside her horse. 

“Nonsense,” he said, though he felt himself relax as the wolf left his side. “My horse is fit for a prince. Neither he nor I can be startled by a young wolf.”

“You would naturally not be startled, Your Grace, for you are brave to the bone, I am sure. But I think it is in the nature of every horse to fear. Mushroom still gets frightened, don’t you girl.” She leaned forward and gave her horse a few reassuring pats on the neck. 

Gods help the simple creature. She named her horse _Mushroom_? That was worse than naming her wolf after a fruit. Were all the Stark brood simple in the head? Just yesterday he’d heard the youngest Stark chit call her horse Oatmeal. _Oatmeal._

Joffrey wondered too if Lady Sansa knew that Rhaenyra, who was eaten alive by her brother’s dragon, had kept a dwarf named Mushroom. He wondered what she would make of such a story, and suddenly wished to tell it to her in great detail, just to observe her face, though he refrained. Best to do so when she had no immediate means of escape. Or perhaps he would tell her amid company. 

Would those enticing eyes grow glassy with horror, he wondered, or had her mother taught her to keep a cast of marble over her face as his own mother did when Father insulted her? He’d enjoy looking for the cracks in her composure just as much as he’d enjoy seeing her fear.

“And scared they should be,” she was saying now. “Direwolves can do terrible, ungodly things to horses and humans alike.”

“Oh?” he asked, his excitement suddenly prickling. Joffrey thought to the scar on his shoulder. In truth, he had barely felt the fang pierce his skin—so…baffled was he that the Starks would allow such a thing to attack a royal prince—but it must have been sharp indeed to rip through his leather armour. Joffrey peered down at Lady Sansa’s pup. It was only the size of a large dog and seemed perfectly biddable, but he was not fooled. 

The bitch who had attacked him in the yard had been taller than wolves had any right to be. Just how much damage could those teeth reek on a human body, he wondered now, feeling his eyes narrow with pleasure. He had heard of dogs being used to hunt outlaws. Surely a wolf the size of a bear…

“Ungodly, you say?”

Perhaps Sansa Stark was not so dull after all. 

“Oh, Your Grace, Old Nan used to tell us the most terrifying stories about the things direwolves could do to enemies.”

Her eyes had grown huge as they peered up at him, swirling with purple apprehension. Ah, the girl really was exquisite. And he had been right: she was lovelier than ever when she had fear gracing her face. Joffrey would make sure to elicit this from her more often. It became her better than the calm smiles she’d been giving him. 

“It’s been said that a young direwolf can tear the arm cleanly off a man, right from the socket, or crush their leg bones to shards with their bite. When the Stark kings of old took their direwolves into battle, they led their vanguards riding their wolves like horses. They won battles without any blood on their swords, for their wolves ripped out the throats of every enemy who tried to attack, then fed on their livers and hearts and tore away their flesh until they were nothing more than savaged flesh in the mud.”

Joffrey had pulled his horse to a stop without realising, so transfixed was he with her words. 

“Truly? Are they so…bloodthirsty?”

He rather liked hearing tales of men being torn into pulp coming from Lady Sansa’s pretty mouth. 

“Oh, yes, Your Grace. I do hope Lemons won’t turn out this way, but it is in their nature. There may be naught I can do.”

He felt himself smile, a giddy sort of satisfaction swelling. 

“Ah, but who are you—who is anyone, really—to deny these creatures their nature? Tell me, my lady, what else can these awesome beasts do?”

**000**

That night, Joffrey dreamed that he had a pack of direwolves at his beck and call, their curved fangs dripping with crimson blood. At his feet lay his enemies—among them his various uncles—pathetically broken, their muscles torn into meaty pulp, their necks and arms bent at fascinating angles, all their throats hanging out like broken crossbow strings.

A movement caught his eye. A groan of agony filled the air, and a hand streaked with grime and blood rose from the pile of limbs and torsos, clutching a dagger. One for his wolves stalked over to the hand, but before it could attack, the dagger was cutting into black fur, spilling bright new blood. The direwolf struck then, red-stained fang agleam, and the human screams fought with the sharp whine of the wolf. Joffrey smiled. 

**000**

“Legend has it that direwolves hold the last vestiges of old Northern magic,” said Sansa Stark. “’Tis what Old Nan has been telling us all our lives.”

Joffrey had summoned Lady Sansa to ride with him yet again. His mother had not liked that he allowed her company so often through the day, but the land through which they travelled was a bore of yellowing trees and low hills. As it was deemed unseemly for him to ride in the wheelhouse, thereby robbing him of the amusement of scaring Tommen with talk of hunting, Joffrey’s other option was to ride with his father and Lord Stark. He’d rather not. Lord Stark was dull as chalk and had a disapproving face that made Joffrey want to snarl. His daughter was a much finer riding companion, particularly now that she talked of their Northern monsters. 

“What magic could they possibly have?” Joffrey asked now. “They’re just oversized wolves.”

She gave him a sweet smile, her cheek dimpling, and Joffrey fought the urge to squeeze her porcelain skin until it bruised like a peach. 

“They may look mundane, but it is said that my ancestors could skinchange into direwolves at will. See through their eyes. Run and strike and bite through their bodies.”

Joffrey frowned. This was a child’s fantasy, surely. 

“You expect me to believe your ancestors could turn into direwolves? What do you take me for?”

“Oh, I do beg your pardon, I meant no offence, Your Grace.” Her head was bowed in contrition, and Joffrey felt his annoyance subside, just slightly. Truly, he was finding each new expression of hers more appealing than the last. 

“I did not mean they turned into wolves. Skinchangers simply sent their sentience inside another being, controlling it from afar. The skinchanger kept his body, but his mind flew into another and became that creature for a time.”

Joffrey raised his brow and gave her a sideways look. She peered tentatively up at him from beneath her eyelashes.

“Skinchanging, it is called?”

“Yes, Your Grace.” 

For a moment, Joffrey indulged in imagining himself with the body of a giant wolf, letting his teeth sink into hot, wet flesh, hearing the screams of his victim as he slowly dug out his liver. Messy, to be sure, and blood on the hands could be sticky and hard to clean. Still…

“This is something you Northmen could all do, once?”

“Not at all. You see, only the Starks could do this, and other Northern houses bent the knee to my ancestors for fear of their abilities. The Boltons have long envied us the skill, it is said, but the best they could do was flay and wear the skins of their enemies. A poor imitation, and most gruesome.”

Flaying. Now this was something Joffrey had heard of before coming North. He had hoped to see it, for all that Pycelle claimed the Starks had outlawed the practice. Folly of them. And soft. That was the problem with these Starks. They were so bound up in so-called honour and mercy that they forgot you cannot rule without fear. 

When he was king, Joffrey would allow House Bolton to flay as many prisoners as they wished, so long as he could see the practice for himself. He imagined it required skill and a delicate touch with the knife to flay a man alive, and the very thought of the craft intrigued him. 

“But skinchanging is only the least of it.”

“Oh? Tell me more, sweet lady. These legends…they entertain me.”

“Of course, Your Grace. Anything to please you.”

“Hm.” She was learning, it seemed. He awarded her with a smile. “Well, go on.”

“It is said that there is a great spirit who lives beyond the Wall, a direwolf spirit the size of a castle. He is the protector of all wolves and guardian of the North itself. My Stark ancestor was said to have met the direwolf spirit thousands of years ago. That was when he placed it on our sigil, for it was this spirit who gave them the power to skinchange.”

“This is a spectre then? How can a ghost protect anything?”

“Oh, but he is as solid as you or I. His claws are sharp as Valyrian steel and his fangs hot as molten iron. His eyes are red from the flesh of the men he has torn to pieces, though there are tales that he sinks his teeth into the neck and drains a man of lifeblood. It’s said a glare from him can root a person to the spot, freezing his legs so he is helpless. He is a most fearsome guardian of legend.”

Even as his mind raced to imagine such a sight, Joffrey felt an unwelcome shudder shoot down his spine, and somehow the day seemed colder than before, and the sun more distant. A guardian of the Starks? He had forgotten for a day that the Starks were said to have direwolf blood in their veins—had forgotten that the wolf’s head was emblazoned on their sigil—so entangled was he in thoughts of their savagery. But now he remembered, and his shoulder throbbed once more. 

“When does this…wolf spirit attack? Does it roam the frozen deserts of the North and reign terror over the barren lands?”

“Oh, no, Your Grace,” she said, her voice accented with laughter, her very white teeth flashing. Exquisite. So breathtakingly lovely, yet somehow even her smile was sharper than he remembered, and no longer bathed in warmth. “This demon can find enemies no matter where they are. Even follow them into their dreams. And once a man has been marked, there is no turning back. He will become prey, one way or another.”

“And…and who are its enemies?”

“Why Your Grace, we Starks are the North incarnate, and the direwolf stands guard over us all. Stark enemies are his enemies.” The smile deepened, dimpling a flawless cheek.

“And do you wish to know a secret, Your Grace?”

A shard of ice seemed to imbed itself deep into his chest, cutting through his muscle and sinew, burrowing into his heart. For a wild moment, Sansa Starks’ eyes seemed to flash, red and sharp and bloody, until Joffrey shook his head, and they returned to their normal lavender blush.

“I believe there is still magic left in the world,” she said, sweet voice just above a whisper. “And I believe this direwolf demon will tear apart every last enemy of the Starks—rip throats from necks, tear muscle from bone—and feast upon their lifeblood.”

**000**

He was wandering through the night, through open darkness, when from behind Joffrey heard a soft shuffle of paws on dirt. He froze rigid. Behind him he could hear gruff pants, and as he slowly turned he came face to face with the direwolf bitch whose fang had torn open his shoulder.

Yet, here she appeared as a spectre, sharply shadowed and glowing and as large as a castle. Her eyes glowed red like hellfire, and as she circled him, all light turned to smoke. He was cold, so very cold, yet hot too, and prickling with sweat. He was frozen to the ground, unable to escape the dark form that stalked towards him. 

“D…d…down! Down, you bitch!” he tried to command, but the wolf did not hear him, but instead glowed mossy green and bared her teeth. 

“Don’t come any closer! I am a prince! How dare you? I’ll…I’ll I’ll I’ll have your head, you hear me?”

His hand fumbled to his hip, searching for his sword, but he wore only his nightshirt, and the cold bit so hard he could not stop shaking.

“Why are you coming at me? I…I did nothing to you. I did not even touch that Stark bitch with my sword! I…I am their _prince!_ I did nothing!”

And yet those crimson eyes burned closer and closer until he was swallowed in a red miasma that stung his lungs. He felt the scream burst from his throat, burning his flesh, and then all he felt was cold. 

In the black of the night, Joffrey jerked awake in his tent, his camp bed creaking beneath him. _A nightmare. Only a nightmare._ Yet as he lay back down and tried to sleep once more, he could swear he heard the howling of wolves not so far from where he lay. 

**000**

Joffrey did not command Lady Sansa’s company for many days. Her direwolf padded by her side wherever she rode, and Joffrey did not wish to look so weak as to order it away from her, for the excuse that the wolf “offended him” sounded weak and false even to his own ears. As the royal party made its way through the repugnant stretch known as the Neck, Joffrey could only watch the Stark brood from afar whenever they made camp, scowling and feeling his anger simmer. 

Today, the sun broke through the clouds for the first time in a sennight, and the Starks sat on the grass without so much as a bench, grooming their direwolves as if they were common servants or untamed savages. Joffrey could hardly stand to look at them, for whenever he met the gaze of one of the wolves, the loathsome fear washed over his back, sour and damp. 

He wished to reach for the nearest servant and dash their head against the ground to ease his crawling anger, but even that he could not do, for his mother had insisted he not indulge himself until they were safely behind the walls of the Red Keep. Already she had nagged him about backhanding a serving girl and dislodging the knee of a page with his foot. She would never have said a word had they been back at court. Being on the road truly was a great inconvenience. 

And yet, for some perverse reason, he could not tear his eyes away from the wolves, watching from afar and wallowing in the bitter excitement that still stirred when he thought of their savagery. No, those nightmares did not mean fear. They were only the imagining of his vigilant mind. Only the intelligent had visions thus. He did not fear them. He could not. He was a lion, and he was cowed by no being that walked the earth. 

The only circumstance that pleased him now was the warm weather that had retired the heavy furs the women had covered themselves with. Lady Sansa wore a blush-coloured gown this day, and as she reclined upon the grass—her plush teets pressing into her dress with every breath, the outline of her small waist elusive as the fabric draped loosely over her form, her white throat delicate and begging for the mark of a hand—she made a sight so rousing that Joffrey had half a mind to stalk over and take his due right there and then. 

She seemed to laugh at something her wolf was doing, her teeth gleaming in the sun. Beside her, the savage little wench and her wolf seemed to be wrestling, the wolf refusing to be brushed and instead choosing to clamber onto Arya Stark’s chest and lick her face. Disgusting.

Yet even from here, Joffrey could hear her laughter, and then she was rolling over the grass with the direwolf, nuzzling her face into its neck as if kissing it. Beside her, the youngest chit was laughing, running around them with her huge wolf, unclear who was chasing whom.

Lady Sansa might be the fairest, but these two were prettier than most as well. And yet, any appeal they might have had evaporated as soon as one encountered their demeanour. 

He could not keep the sneer from his face. How degrading and offensive a sight this was. How could anyone civilised show such affection at all, let alone to a beast? Were they mad, these girls? To make matters worse, of late, Arya Stark had become cronies with some smallfolk boy from one of the trade carts that followed the retinue. He was on the grass too, tentatively reaching to pat one of the wolves, and Joffrey could almost smell the grime of his work from where he sat. 

For the thousandth time, he wondered how Ned Stark and Ashara Dayne could let their daughters embarrass them all this way. No man in his right mind would marry either of those abominations, and what use were daughters if they could not make good marriages? 

He was so lost in thought that he had realised the Stark bitch had sensed his gaze. Slowly, she met his eye, and Joffrey let his face morph into the refined destain appropriate for looking at vermin even as her purple stare chilled his blood. He felt the cold of it slide through his veins. Besides her, her direwolf glared up at him, and again Joffrey reminded himself that lions did not fear mere dogs, no matter how fiercely they bared their teeth. No matter how their eyes stung his own.

She held his gaze, (the audacious cunt), and just when he thought his eyes would bulge out of his face from glaring, her lips stretched back, baring a sharp tooth, its point catching the hazy sun. He did not know if she smiled or snarled. At that moment, he did not know if Arya Stark was human or beast. 

**000**

Joffrey slept little in the coming days. The servants charged with laying his bed every night were either imbeciles or treasonous scum--he was certain of it. Even after he’d applied a few strokes of the rod to each, however, none would come to confess their treachery, and there was, infuriatingly, nothing else he could do. 

A camp bed could never truly be a feather bed, but one had to make do on the road. Joffrey was a reasonable prince. He could make do. Yet in the past weeks, his bed became nearly impossible to fall asleep on—lumpy and hot in the night, giving him all manner of disturbances and discomfort whenever he sought to close his eyes. What were these useless servants doing to his mattress?

When he did manage to slip into sleep, he was dogged by the nightmares of red direwolf eyes and fangs that glowed like hot iron and dripped bloody slobber. Some nights, the great direwolf demon chased after him, hissing “Arya Stark, Arya Stark” on the inside of his skull. May the gods rip their guts in two. He had not even touched Arya Stark. 

On other nights, he was trapped in a room of solid night. The demon circled him, appearing behind him just as he thought he had found a means to escape, threatening to pounce. Joffrey would wake in the dark, clothes damp and muscles aching, and swear he heard the soft padding of wolf paws outside his tent. 

They are only dreams, he told himself. Only the imaginings of his fatigued mind. He would have all the servants flogged bloody when he returned to the Red Keep, and once he returned to his royal chambers, the bleeding shadow would dissipate into so much smoke. And yet he could not forget Sansa Stark’s words. _Why, this demon can find enemies no matter where they are. Even follow them into their dreams._ Each morning, when he awoke from his red-stained slumber, there were always faint imprints of paws around the exposed dirt.

No. Surely the Stark wolves were not surrounding his tent at night, summoned by some distant spectre hell-bent on revenge. It was a child’s fantasy. It was nonsense. 

Yet, as he tossed and turned each night, the howls of the Stark direwolves gyrated about his head, twisting and taunting him. It was not fear he felt—he could not fear, was incapable of it—but the irritation and the lumpiness of his bed kept Joffrey constantly at a simmer with nowhere to vent his indignation. 

Not under Father’s nose. He was the crown prince. Now he must keep his composure before his vassals. But once they returned to court…Joffrey could not wait to feel skin tear beneath the instruments in his hand and hear cleansing screams replace the haunting wolf howls. 

To his vast relief, they finally reached Darry twenty days after the dreams began. For the first time in two moons, servants showed him to a chamber with a real bed and a bath, returning him to acceptable human conditions, and the humble surroundings pleased him so much that he did not even mind that the castle’s size forced him to allow Tommen a bed in his chambers. 

The feast was merry and the music bright, and Lord Darry seemed to understand better than many lords that, while Father was king, Joffrey would one day soon take his place and rule a very long time indeed. Even better, the Starks had been forbidden from bringing their direwolves within the castle walls, and for once, Joffrey could enjoy proximity to Lady Sansa without being reminded of the beasts who dogged his sleep. 

Nevertheless, all through the festivities, all Joffrey could think of was that featherbed in his chamber, waiting for him to sleep through this night away from the lumpy discomfort of his camp mattress. 

When the evening’s activities began to die away and the scones burned low, Joffrey took the first opportunity he had to excuse himself from Father’s presence. He was too deep in his cups to pay him any mind, and Joffrey brushed off his mother’s concerns, stumbling towards his chambers as if pushed by cold wind beneath his arms. In the twitching shadows cast by candle stubs, Joffrey could make out Tommen’s sleeping form in the corner, his milksop of a cat curled at his feet, yet he was in no state to torment his brother this eve. Before his head even hit his silken pillow, his eyes had shuttered, and his mind had fled. 

**000**

He was locked in the chamber of corrupted black once again, the air so cold that his fingers and nose burned with it. The air felt like fire in his throat, and blood rammed within his ears, threatening to pour out with each pound of his heart. He was running, frantic sweat beading on his back, pounding on the rough walls to find an escape. He felt the direwolf demon behind him, its breath icy and foul on the back of his neck. 

A wall was before him, unforgiving, and Joffrey pressed his back against the stone, shaking so that his teeth bit his tongue. The demon approached, blood-stained slobber dripping from its rust-crusted muzzle, its eyes the red of torn flesh. Green light undulated behind it like steam from a bog. Joffrey could not move. His legs were frozen. 

The wolf pounced.

He surged from his feather bed, reeking of foul fear, a hoarse scream stuffed in his throat. His chamber was dark and still and warm. _A dream. Only a dream._

A lone candle still wavered by the chest, and Joffrey blew it out with a snarl, then threw it at the wall. It must have been the flickering of this damn candle that had infected his dreams tonight. 

In the soft beam of moonlight through the window, Joffrey reached for the bed once more, stumbling towards it, heart like a trapped bird. _Only a fucking dream._ His bed was damp where he had lain, but Joffrey would rather jump from the Tower of the Hand than order a servant in now to rectify it. In a miserable heap, he wrapped himself in his sheets, placed his head resolutely down on his pillow once more, and—

The moonlight shuddered like a drowning face. At once, what had been pure white light took on the tinge of boggy green. Paralysed, Joffrey could only jerk his eyes to the wall. Depraved green light invaded from the windows now, bright and terrifying, and as his eyes stung from the light he saw the shadow creep onto the rough stone, slithering into place and sharpening before his gaze. The demon. The direwolf. In his chamber. Before his bed. 

It pounced.

Joffrey screamed as he had never done in his life, screamed with so much force it felt as if his throat and entrails were pouring forth from his gaping mouth. It was real. It was all real. The hellhound had lept from his dreams into his life, and this was this night he would surely be drained of his lifeblood. 

He screamed and screamed, and then he was running away from that accursed chamber and the vengeful demon, feeling its stinking breath hot on his back. The halls danced with hungry shadows and the flagstones carved into his foot, but still he ran, on and on, for any pain was better than the blood-caked fangs of the direwolf.

He heard voices ahead. The feast. Father and the lords were still at the feast. The evening had not yet died. There was hope for him still. His chest ached and burned and his legs trembled from exertion, but praise be to all the gods, for he would make it in time to be saved. He burst through the doors of Lord Darry’s Great Hall, hearing his screams echoing about the high ceilings even as salvation beckoned, hot and sweet. . 

Every head turned to him. 

“Father! Father, you must save me! Please!”

No one moved. In this hall filled with men, all Joffrey could hear was his own desperate panting. 

“Father, the wolf demon will surely kill me! It seeks to drink my blood. Please, please, you must slay it for me! Save me!”

The silence of a tomb. The stillness of a grave. Joffrey did not know how long he passed standing there, staring into his father’s frozen shock, when from behind him came the patter of shoes on stone. He turned. There stood Tommen, fat cheeks red, a stubby hand rubbing at his eye. 

“Joff? What’s wrong, Joff? Why’d you scream and run from our chamber?”

Another heartbeat of death, and then the hall exploded with the crashing of plates and pitchers as his father rose like a mountain and flipped the high table off the dais. He roared then, black eyes terrible, and Joffrey did not know any longer if he feared the direwolf demon or this beast who was his father. 

“You... _COWARD_!”

His hulking finger was in Joffrey’s face, and he stumbled back, the stone rasping against his skin. Suddenly, Joffrey could see every face around him, each as sharp as wolves’ teeth, all sneering, all laughing. Lords and knights and smallfolk. All daring to laugh. There was that Lannister squire with the missing front tooth. There was that boy who had sat with the Stark girls in the grass. There was Lord Darry with a self-satisfied sneer.

Father’s face was red now, and his chest heaved, his breath coming short.

“Tommen is...is _ten_ , but whatever you saw cowed you and not him? Huh? Answer me! Is that it!? Are you more a coward than a _child?!”_

He tried to speak. Oh, how he wished to speak! But his tongue was caked in dried mud and blood, and the words would not come.

His father required no response. 

“YOU. ARE. NOT. MY. SON!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, it has been a hot minute. Sorry for the long delay. In a farcical turn of events, I got appendicitis the first week of 2021 and had to get my appendix out. So. The year has been off to a great start, clearly. Anyway, you would think that hanging out in hospital all day would give me a lot of time to write, but as it turns out, being high on opiates isn’t conducive to productivity. Who would have thought? Fun times. 
> 
> I also started classes for my masters program, so that’s been a good time. Doesn’t feel like school yet, but soon, I imagine, I’ll be writing essays again yikes. 
> 
> Then I found out that an anime I was actually obsessed with in my childhood came out with a sequel when I wasn’t paying attention. Of course I had to go and rewatch half the original anime, then watch the sequel and obsess over it.  
> And naturally, all this time, I’ve been reading fics, and it’s really the fault of this fandom for having so many hidden gems. I got sucked in quite a bit. 
> 
> Anyway, that’s the end of my excuses and elaborating on my personal life in case anyone cared. Hope this chapter was entertaining at the very least. If it wasn’t clear…Arya is the biggest troll ever, and Sansa is a surprisingly good manipulative liar if she sets her heart to it. They orchestrated this whole thing for Joffrey, and our poor lad fell head-first into their trap. (I—ahem, Sansa and Arya—completely made up vampire wolf demon story, just fyi.) 
> 
> I was stuck on the chapter for quite some time, and the quality might be...idk lacking? I don’t even know anymore. At this point, I’m just glad it’s done, The next few chapters should be posted pretty soon, but then I might take a little more time to plan out the whole KL arc before I get into writing it. 
> 
> Anyway, thanks for sticking with me everyone! Thank you in particular to my betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina) for helping me figure out this chapter and generally listening to my insecure rantings about my fic. 
> 
> And finally, a huge thank you to all the users on Reddit that helped review this last chapter. They were so so kind and gave me a lot of motivation to continue, especially u/Kaimkre1 who did a really thorough edit of the first part of this chapter and gave me a whole bunch of fantastic suggestions to make everything better. 
> 
> They’re Kasamira on AO3, and they’ve written a really beautiful fic (The Flower that Hides the Serpent), which I read while procrastinating. The Sansa/Oberyn ship makes me a tad tentative, but the second chapter does one of the best character studies of Cersei I’ve ever seen in fanfic, so definitely go check that out :) Really hope they’ll continue it.  
> The subReddit is called r/TheCitadel, btw, and people are generally really helpful with recommendations and fic idea support. This fic would literally not exist if that sub didn’t. Really, go have a look :)))))


	30. Cherry Tarts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please read until the end of the chapter before leaving me angry comments about Sansa’s character and arc. Don’t jump to conclusions halfway through. Or, I mean, that’s disingenuous. I do want you to jump to conclusions. Just…don’t stop reading until the end.

* * *

Sansa Stark sat in a pool of sunlight in the godswood at Castle Darry, trying to read, though her eyes traveled over the same words and her mind drank in no meaning. On a rock nearby, Alle was bent over some mending, and beside Sansa, a sleeping Lemons gave a squeaky sneeze before snuggling closer into her lap.

She smiled despite herself and gave her a light scratch between the ears. At her feet, the little white sapling she had found at the base of Winterfell's weirwood tree seemed alight, its white bark gilded with the light and its tiny leaves glowing like embers.

She had escaped the company of the Darry women and the queen's ladies earlier in the day, excusing herself on the flimsy pretence of taking her sapling out to get some sun. _Amma_ had only given her a patient look and let her go without a word, though she had stopped a mutinous-looking Lia from following, even when Sansa said she would welcome the company. Their mother knew Sansa could not keep her sister in line.

Poor Lia. Since her accident, their mother had been keeping a tight watch over her, rarely letting her ride ahead of their wheelhouse if she let her ride at all. When the king had gone out on a hunt that morning, her father and Arya had followed, but _Amma_ had made Lia stay in the castle.

On that same matter, she felt badly for her mother too. Sansa should not have left her in the icy company of the queen, especially after the distress she and Arya had caused her that morning, but she could simply not stand the vile gossip Lady Darry's women were exchanging with the queen's ladies, or the pointed compliments they made about her appearance that did not feel like compliments at all.

Nor did she think she could weather another accusatory look from the queen herself and the sinking contrition that accompanied. She could not be in that chamber one moment more without squirming.

The castle was still humming, tight as a harp string, from Prince Joffrey's disastrous outburst the night before. That was the reason Sansa had escaped to the godswood. The king had bellowed and threatened and thrown furniture about the Great Hall before someone had had the good sense to summon Father, and by then there had been no salvaging of the situation.

This morning, the king had taken a hunting party out before sunrise, Prince Joffrey had taken ill to his rooms, and the queen had purple half-moons under her eyes. Avoidance of any mention of the previous night had hung thick in the sewing chamber, stifling, and it had been another reason that Sansa had needed to leave, no matter how rude.

She could not shake the guilt that she and Arya had taken things too far.

"He only received his due," Arya had declared last night, not at all repentant, but the plan had always been to scare him a little, not thoroughly humiliate the future king before his father and future vassals.

When Sansa had first heard of what happened between Arya and the prince, she could hardly believe her ears. Yet it had been the truth, and to her horror, Sansa had felt angry tears stinging her nose and bitter disappointment clog her chest. How could he do such a thing? Joffrey was supposed to be a prince, and Ser Sandor a knight. Arya might know how to wield a blade, but she was only a girl. Were knights and princes not supposed to protect litle girls? Was that not their sworn duty, avowed before the gods? Why had they intended to hurt her defenceless sister instead?

Perhaps Ser Sandor's actions could be forgiven. He was sworn to protect the Lannisters and the prince. Perhaps he had thought Arya might injure Joffrey and chosen one vow over another. Yet Joffrey himself…

 _Amma_ had instructed her to observe the prince carefully, in case she changed her mind about him. Oh, Sansa had most certainly changed her mind, but not for the better, which, she reflected now, was likely the outcome her mother had wanted. Joffrey's deeds were unconscionable to her, no matter his reasons. She did feel pity for him, for surely being savaged by a grown direwolf was too harsh a punishment for anyone, but Sansa had nonetheless contrived to stay as far from him as she could.

Yet, when Arya had come to her before they left home, looking more vulnerable than Sansa had ever seen her, she'd let herself be convinced to keep Prince Joffrey's company once more.

"Oh Sansa, I was so, so scared. I really thought he was going to run me through, and no matter what I did, I couldn't escape. Please, help me scare him, just a little? I can't bear that he will get away with this."

"Oh, Arya." She had pulled her sister into her arms, unable to look at her haunted eyes. She rarely saw Arya so young and frightened, and even more rarely did she plead with her for anything.

"I am so glad you're alright. It…it was despicable that he should threaten you so, but…surely he's been punished enough? I heard the direwolf mother tore a rather large hole in his chest. And there was a lot of blood."

Arya had pulled back to look up at her then, and there had been tears on her cheeks. Any protest Sansa may have had faded like smoke.

"Sansa, please, he was so cruel to me. I can't sleep at night knowing he does not suffer as I do."

And so, along the King's Road, Sansa had found herself riding next to Prince Joffrey every day. Arya had been right that the prince would request her company—"he looks at you like a tender piece of meat; he won't be able to keep away," she'd said—and reluctantly, Sansa had agreed. Gone were her early fantasies about the golden prince who had ridden through Winterfell's gates. Prince Joffrey's gaze upon her was not unfamiliar, but it was by far the most insistent and unyielding, and it made her feel greasy and foul.

Sansa had spent days telling him a mix of Old Nan's stories and nonsense Arya had concocted for this very jape. She had not expected his reactions. The plan had been to frighten him with tales of direwolf retribution, and then create the illusion that there were indeed wolves after him at night.

Yet, from that first day, Sansa had seen a white-hot interest spark in his eyes when she spoke of the gore and savagery that turned her own stomach. Over the next days, it had grown into a look she could only conclude was glee. It had been all too easy. The prince was eager to fill his mind with the horrid tales, and Sansa, at Arya's instruction, had provided them in hoards.

"You have to be convincing when you tell them," Arya had insisted, and so Sansa swallowed down her shudders and tried her best to be engaging. It had worked. She knew it had. The prince had been enthralled by the stories, and Sansa knew that they were always swimming at the from of his mind. Then, later, when she had turned the tales to that of vengeance for the Starks, she had clearly seen the hesitant fear that flashed in his eyes.

Most disturbingly, she found that there were moments when she rather enjoyed seeing that fear. It was for Arya's sake, this manipulation, but Sansa would be lying if she said she did not prefer Prince Joffrey to think of the blood-sucking demon rather than stare at her breasts.

Arya would rouse Sansa in the middle of the night, and the two would sneak from the tent they shared, their direwolves following close behind. They had not told Arthur or Elia of their plan, for _Amma_ was ever watchful over the twins these days, yet Mouse would join in their little party as they slipped towards the royal camp, better behaved than either Lem or Nymeria.

Each night, they would bid their wolves sneak silently past the Lannister guards and walk circles around the prince's tent with strategically-thrown sticks. And then, on their return, they encouraged them to howl in rounds just as they'd trained them to do at Winterfell.

After a fortnight, Joffrey had stopped asking Sansa to ride with him.

"I think we are done, are we not?" Sansa had asked Arya one night when Arya had woken her once more. "Surely you've seen the fatigue in Prince Joffrey's face. He can't even bear to look at Lem anymore."

Arya had narrowed her eyes.

"It has not been so very long. I say we must keep this up until we cross the Neck at the very least."

It was Arya's justice, after all, and Sansa had acquiesced, for she had agreed to help. Arya was looking perkier and more like herself by the day, so Sansa supposed it could not hurt to scare the prince for a while longer.

Then, at Darry, Arya had pulled her away from the welcoming feast as soon as they were finished eating, and it was only until they were back in their rooms that Arya would tell her of her anything at all. She had produced a fungus that resembled translucent hydrangea clusters, a smile so wicked dotting her face that Sansa felt a tingle run down her spine.

"I found out from Arthur that this fungus glows green when you light it. Come, help me gather it up. And do you have the tinderbox with you?"

"Arya, what on…" There was a little mountain of the stuff to one corner of Arya's trunk. "Where did all this come from? And what use could you possibly have with a green bonfire?"

"Mycah helped me gather it when we were passing the Neck." She shrugged, the picture of nonchalance. "As for what we're doing with it, just follow me, and you'll find out."

Ah. Mycah. The son of the man who worked the butcher's cart that followed the royal retinue. Arya and Lia were always good at making friends. He seemed a pleasant sort, always smiling and not at all shy around nobles, and Sansa did not mind his company when he joined them. Yet now she bit her lip, for Sansa had found them behind the washing trolleys one night, Arya dressed in coarse-spun clothes, Mycah's hands all over her backside.

"Arya…"

"Ugh, Sansa, now is entirely the wrong time to lecture me. And I've already told you. We've only been kissing. He's pretty good at that."

Sansa frowned, and Arya sighed.

"I said I'd be careful, and I have been, I swear. No one is going to see. And again. Only kissing. Now, come _on,_ this is the last part of the jape, and it's going to be spectacular."

They had wrapped up the fungus in their spare shifts, and Arya had led her down to the kennels where their direwolves had been put up for their stay. Promising to only take them to the godswood, Arya had easily talked her way past the hound hands, then taken their little party around the castle.

"Where are you taking us?"

In the moonlight, Arya's sharp tooth had glistened like a sliver of the moon.

"I saw Joffrey leave the feast a while back. Seemed tired. I'd say he's retired for the night. Let's have our direwolves keep him company."

Arya had somehow located Joffrey's window from the outside. They crouched in the shade of the low garden trees nearby, watching the single candle flicker from within, Sansa asking more than a few times if Arya was sure this was truly a good idea.

"How do you even know it will work, this trick of the light?"

"I don't. We'll have to experiment. But Mycah tells me he played this trick on his little siblings once, and they were scared into wetting the bed."

"How unkind! And to his little siblings! He really did such a thing?"

Arya gave her a sideways look.

"He does say he feels badly about it. I suppose it was ill-done of him, but he was thirteen."

"Well, if he is contrite now…" Thirteen truly was an age of unthinking action. At thirteen, Arya had nearly burned down their granary in some elaborate scheme to get back at Robb for one slight or other. Sansa had been horrified, naturally, but half the things Arya did seemed to horrify her, a fact that made Sansa question if she was the one with the weak constitution.

She had always been aware that she was the only one of her siblings who had never gone with Father to witness his executions. She could hide behind her arguments that proper ladies would never wish to view such a thing, but she knew that one day, she would have to preside over such carrying out of justice. She was only being cowardly by shying away from the world for as long as she could, yet the very notion of watching a man's head leave his body in a red burst made her see black spots before her eyes.

Her thoughts had been interrupted by Arya's sharp gasp.

"Look," she hissed, pointing at the newly darkened window. "He's surely gone abed. Come, the clearing just here will do nicely."

Working quickly, they piled the fungus into a little pyre in the cleaning, nudging away Nymeria's curious snout. Lemons sat quickly by Sansa's side, brilliant eyes slightly narrowed, while Mouse slowly paced before the castle.

"That's perfect, Mouse. You just keep walking like that," said Arya as she struck the flintstones together, sending sparks into the fungus. "The fungus only burns a few moments, so we'll need to be fast."

A moment of glittering silence as the embers settled, and then the clearing bloomed with green light so bright Sansa had to shield her eyes.

Arya was on her feet at once, beckoning their wolves between the fire and the window.

"Slow now, Nymeria, Lem, walk back and forth—yes, precisely, good girl. Yes, another go, perfect!"

Sansa squinted up at the window, but everything was pulsing behind her eyes, and she could hardly see a thing. For some moments, all she heard were the direwolves' muted steps and Arya's voice. Just as the fungus fire was beginning to dim, however, a blood-curdling scream had pierced the air, coming unmistakably from that newly-darkened chamber.

Over the last flickering embers of the green fire, Arya had given Sansa a smile that so resembled Nymeria's predatory sneer it made Sansa's blood slow.

"Now, sis, I think we're done."

**000**

"Should we head back in, milady? The sun's dropping. It'll be getting dark soon."

Sansa looked up from her book. The sun had deepened in hue on the grass. She had forgotten the hour. Nodding, Sansa handed her book to Alle, then bent to gather up her weirwood sapling.

On one of her last mornings at Winterfell, Sansa had awakened to whisperings in her ear, and somehow, she had known she needed to go to the godswood. Wrapped in furs and cloaks over her dressing gown, Sansa had braved the morning chill, her feet crunching over the frost that covered the humus-laden ground. Before the heart tree, she had gasped in the pale-white silence.

At the base of the vast trunk was a smaller shoot, its main stem barely as thick as her finger. Tiny red leaves opened from the top like rubies. In an instant, she had been on her knees, hands sinking into the hard dirt, digging up the shoot and wrapping it with a large ball of soil in an old cloak. She had known that this was meant for her, this tiny little sapling. It would be a glimpse of home amid the Red Mountains of Dorne.

The sapling had grown in the moons they were on the road. She had planted it in a clay pot, and while there was still plenty of space for its expansion, the trunk was now as thick as two of her fingers, and it was beginning to ease into that place in her heart where Lem had so easily burrowed.

"What's this you were reading, milady?" asked Alle as they made their way through the yellowing trees. "The times I looked up your nose was near touching the pages." Sansa gave her a small smile and a shrug.

"Just some stories about a tournament a thousand years ago," she said, hoping Alle would not ask for details, for she had none to give. For once, Sansa was glad that Alle had no interest in learning how to read.

Sansa did not know how long she had been sitting against that rock in the Darry godswood, her unsighted eyes fixed to the page before her. Over and over she told herself that she must not feel too badly for the prince, that he had threatened Arya's life, that he deserved this painful lesson. Yet, he was only sixteen, just as she was. Gods only knew that Sansa made mistakes all the time. He was only misled, surely, and did not deserve to be so publicly berated and humiliated. Alle had repeated King Robert's words to her the next morning. They had been most merciless.

Her mind flew to another terrible boy and the vicious things he had said to her. Gerold Dayne had tormented Sansa for the months she had been at Starfall all those years ago, and eventually had succeeded in making her cry. Yet she had seen he was only that way because he was hurting, for his eyes were haunted, and he flinched at the lightest outburst. He needed someone to lash out his pain on, and she had been an easy target. Sansa could not see such wounds in the prince, to be sure, but surely they were there. Surely he suffered somehow, to be so eager to cause Arya harm. And she had only made him suffer more.

In a way, Sansa was glad that _Amma_ had sensed their involvement. At least there would be some punishment for her deeds, and somehow that felt like a balm on her guilt. Their mother had pulled her and Arya into her chambers in the pale morning hours, pinning them with her expectant purple gaze until Arya finally broke.

"Fine, fine. It was my doing. I lit some green fungus outside his chambers and made Nymeria walk in front of it. That cast a shadow and frightened the wits out of him. He deserved it! You said so yourself! You said you and Father could not do any more, so I took the task into my own hands."

Their mother frowned and rubbed her temple.

"Arya, love, how could—oh, gods help me, Elia's giving me enough grief as it is. Do you have any idea what would have happened if you were caught? What the queen would have insisted the king do to you—"

"It wasn't just Arya!" Her mother and sister both snapped their gaze to her, and _Amma'_ s eyes had gone huge.

"What?"

"It wasn't just Arya," Sansa said. "We…well, 'twas a long game, this, and I played a much bigger part than Arya did. Last night was only the cumulation, and in that, too, I helped."

"I…" Their mother was lost for words. Never had Sansa been involved in a scheme like this.

Finally, she had sighed and closed her eyes, and Sansa had felt her stomach sink as another weight of contrition was added on her conscience. _Amma_ was right. She was worried enough over Lia and Arya. Sansa did not need to be another burden, and yet here she was.

It was a long while before their mother spoke, but neither Sansa nor Arya could bring themselves to speak out again in their own defence. It had been risky and reckless. So many people could have seen them. They had not thought it through in the moment, but looking back…

"Girls, do you remember all the stories I've told you? Of the masks people wear in King's Landing? Of the subtle politics and the horrible fates that await at the end of a single wrong turn?"

They nodded.

"Did you think they were tales I contrived to scare you? They were real, real things that I saw happen when I was nearly as young as you. People died horrible deaths because one wrong word spoken in private was whispered to the king. King Robert is no Mad Aerys, but court has not changed, and neither has the cruelty of royal blood. There will always be eyes on you, ears fixed to your walls, no matter where you are, do you understand?

We are not at home any longer. You must think twice and twice again before you act, and you must ensure no one can trace any wrongdoing back to you, especially in the next months in King's Landing. But take heed, for it is true for Sunspear too, Arya, even if you are surrounded by family.

And Sansa, you must take care to learn all you can from your uncle, do you hear me? Even as far as Starfall, there are always people who listen and watch, and rumours can cut deeper than swords. The two of you can never be so reckless again."

"Yes, _Amma._ "

"I'm sorry," Sansa heard herself whisper, and their mother had sighed again and run her thumb across Sansa's burning cheek.

"Sansa, you'll refuse sweets and dessert until we arrive at King's Landing. Arya, I will be spending the rest of the journey in the wheelhouse with Yli, and so will you."

Arya's eyes had gone wide, but Sansa wished to make no protest. It was the mildest of punishments, even as she thought longingly of the beautiful cherry tarts from the evening before.

"I want you girls to remember this lesson well. Hopefully, this prolonged punishment will scorch this day into your heads."

"Oh, but _Amma,_ I will surely start growing mould. Why…why can't I also skip dessert?"

Their mother raised her eyebrows.

"When was the last time you ate more than a bite of something sweet? Do you take your mother for a fool?"

"No, but—ugh fine, very well, but I make no promises I won't upset Yli's nerves."

Arya had sighed and grumbled all the way back to their shared chambers, though she did include a "thanks, sis" for Sansa not abandoning her to their mother's reprimands. Sansa had barely heard her.

It had not seemed real, before: leaving home, going to the capital, starting on her way to Starfall with only Alle for company, this time well and truly for the rest of her life.

Yet now the fact rose before her, garish and stark. She could be a child no longer, no matter how keenly she already felt the loss of Winterfell. No, she must be strong, and she must be wise with her actions. Her mother had been right. She had been too reckless. It must never happen again. She must not disappoint her mother, not again.

**000**

Sansa and Alle had returned Lem to the abandoned kennels by the time the sun began to deepen to a rich bloody orange at the edge of the sky. Lem had seemed to frown up at her when Sansa locked the grate, making the pitiful whining at the back of her throat. Sansa had felt tears prick and was in half a mind to sneak her direwolf up to her chambers. Nymeria had gone on the hunt with Arya, and Mouse and Dawn were faring just fine as they wrestled in the corner, but it seemed that Lem had been missing her, cooped up here in these old buildings. Just thinking about her here, sad and wilted, made her heart ache.

"We'll be on the road soon, I promise," Sansa had said, hoping she sounded reassuring. The sooner they left this place, the better.

As they made their way across the abandoned yards, Sansa let her thoughts wander once more, and so it was with a sharp start that she looked up to find a wall of plate armour looming above her, blocking out the light. Her sharp gasp stung the back of her throat.

Ser Sandor Clegane stood before her, his face twisted in an uneven scowl, the patches of burn scars marring one side burning deep red and angry. Sansa shivered despite herself, imagining the acrid pain he must have endured. She averted her eyes and hoped she had not caused him embarrassment with her staring. Her mother would not have stared so.

"Ser, I beg your pardon," she said, bobbing a curtsey and making to walk around him. He took one lumbering step to the side and blocked her path once more. Sansa looked up at him in question, though she focused her eyes on his neck. Behind her, she could feel Alle stiffen.

"I beg your pardon," she said again, clutching the clay pot tighter in her hands. He spoke before she could move.

"You should not have done that." His voice sounded scorched too, raspy and dry and low.

"Not have done…sorry?"

"Last night. During this entire journey. Do not think I did not see what you and your sister did."

Sansa bit her tongue against the shock. It was just as their mother had said. People were always watching in the shadows.

 _What will he do?_ she wondered, suddenly very frightened. Surely he had not breathed a word to the prince or the queen. Not yet, anyway. Perhaps he wished for something in exchange for his silence. The very notion felt wrong for a knight, but had not that day at Winterfell proved Ser Sandor did not hold his knightly vows above all else?

"Alle?"

Her handmaiden scampered up behind her. Sansa turned to hand her the pot.

"Take my sapling and start back. I'd have a word with Ser Sandor."

"But milady—"

"I'll be but a moment. 'Tis light out yet. I can find my way back."

Sansa gave her a pointed look then, hoping she understood that she did not truly intend for Alle to abandon her here, only to step away so this errant knight could speak his piece. It took a moment, but Alle nodded, took her pot, and began a slow walk back across the yard.

"Please, ser, if you would speak to me, do so plainly."

Over the past weeks on the road, Sansa had heard all about the life of Ser Sandor Clegane. It was said that he had fallen into the fire when he had been but a child. Sansa had not been able to sleep the first night she had heard the tale, imagining over and over a little boy, smaller even than Arthur, his screams ripping through his throat as he beat against the flames.

He was almost as tall as his brother, the escaped Ser Gregor, people whispered, and since the age of twelve Sandor Clegane had been most feared on the battlefield—least of all for his scarred face.

Since Gregor Clegane's escape from justice all those years ago, it was Ser Sandor who ruled his family lands. Yet, unlike most landed knights, he did not spend his time at home, preferring to stay in the queen's service and visiting his lands only infrequently. No one knew why, and who would dare ask? It was for this reason they called him the Hound though, for like a loyal dog, he stayed close to his masters.

Yet if he were truly so loyal, surely he would have told the queen his suspicions. Why did he stand before her now?

For a long while, Ser Sandor was silent. Just as Sansa thought she ought to speak once more, he interrupted her thoughts.

"You can't even look at me, can you?"

She felt herself frown. She had not been looking at his face for the sake of courtesy, but that contempt lacing his voice rankled. Deliberately, she raised her eyes to meet his, letting him see her take in the silvery webbed scars that clawed angrily at his eye and missing ear, the once-broken nose, the wiry hair that grew only on one side and covered the other. Her suddenly unflinching gaze seemed to shock him, and Sansa had a moment to see that his eyes were…his eyes were like Father's, somehow. They were terrible and sharp, and yet…that soft grey, just like Father's.

"My apologies if I've caused you offence," she said. "I did not wish you to think I gawked."

The sneer was back, contorting his face, for the scarred half could not move.

"So courteous, aren't you? You and that mother of yours both, hiding behind your polished words."

His words were angry and harsh, yet there was a crack of resignation there too.

Sansa felt her jaw tighten, and she did not know if it was indignation, fear, or grudging understanding that this man sought only to protect himself with this callous shell.

"I hide behind nothing, ser. If you've nothing else to say, I must return to the castle."

"Do not be a damn fool again."

She had turned away from him, making to leave, but his words drew her gaze back to him.

"You and that hare-brained sister of yours. Just because most are too far up their own arses to notice doesn't mean I did not. You'll get yourselves killed sooner or later, playing your hand against the prince and the Lannisters, two helpless little chits as you are. Don't forget that."

Sansa felt her eyes narrow.

"If you thought my sister so helpless, why did you lift her by the shirt collar and make her a target for the prince's blade? Are you not a knight? Have you not sworn to protect?"

A still moment, and then Ser Sandor threw his head back and roared with terrible laughter.

"You really think he could have hurt her? Joffrey? With all your Stark men about?"

"That is hardly the—"

"You really think the prince was going to yield? To a girl half his size? You weren't there. You don't know him. Your sister was a bleeding fool to point her sword at the future king, and you're just as empty-headed for dancing so close to the lion's bloody mouth."

He was right, naturally. Father had spoken stern words to Arya on the matter, Sansa knew, and with this recent jape both she and Arya had been most reckless. Yet, that this man, who was of no relation to her family, would express such concern…And to stand before her now, telling her of what he knew, yet making no threats to expose their schemes…

Sansa felt her face soften into a small smile.

"That was a kindness you did my sister then, ser. And today. This is another kindness. I thank you."

He stared at her as if stung, but then something black and savage passed over his face, and Sansa felt her stomach clench, even as she knew now that this was a good man, at his core. She had seen the break in his shell. A truly heartless man would not be here, speaking with her, warning her.

"I am not _kind_ ," he sneered, his voice hissing like water on hot coals. "Don't you dare say—don't _look_ at me like that, girl. You don't know what I'm capable of."

She peered up at him, eyes softly sweeping his heartbreaking scars. There was a notch on his jaw, a place where flesh had been burned away so deeply that the bone showed beneath. She wanted to place her hand against his scarred face, wanted to tell him that she would not shrink away from this cruel facade that he wore like armour. There was hurt behind it all. Deep, festering wounds that must pain him every moment of his life. She did not know what they were, but she knew they were there.

"I know you have fought in battles, and no doubt you have killed men. 'Tis the unfortunate way of the world, even if I wish it were not so. Yet you are kind, and good, ser. I know you must suffer greatly, and not from the wounds of your flesh. I see it now, no matter that you might believe you conceal it well, and I am sorry that you must bear such pain."

She smiled again, pouring all the warmth she could manage into to her face, and used his shocked silence to thank him once more before leaving with a curtsey.

**000**

Much to Sansa's disappointment, the king and the hunting party did not return that evening, and so at Castle Darry they remained. After the midday meal, Sansa once again excused herself from the women and their sewing, and, feeling Lia's aggrieved glare on her back, made her way to the kennels. There, however, she learned that Arthur had come not an hour hence, taking all three direwolves to the godswood so they might stretch their legs.

As she and Alle walked to join them, Sansa could not help thinking how thoroughly unjust it was that all their wolves seemed to heed Arthur and Lia. Artie could lead all three direwolves, and none would run out of line. Any time Sansa tried to give an order to Mouse or Dawn, all either ever did was stare back at her, or worse, offer her a blatantly mocking yip.

Castle Darry was quiet, just as it had been yesterday. There was still something humming and dissonant in the air, and the few servants Sansa passed all spoke in shuttered voices. Just as she crossed the central bailey, however, booming calls and the clomping of trotting horses shattered the silence. Sansa flinched. At the gates were five Lannister men on horseback. The man in the middle was unmistakably Ser Sandor Clegane.

One of the other men spotted her and dipped his head in greeting. Before Sansa could decide if she should take her leave from afar or approach to greet them, they had ridden up near her, dismounting as stable hands rushed forward to take their reins. It was only then that she noticed the large sacks they bore on the backs of their horses.

"My lords," she said, and caught some of their grinning bows as she curtseyed. Ser Sandor did not smile.

Sansa should not have said any more. She should not have asked any questions. What these men did were none of her concern, and yet she was ever her mother's daughter. They were all like this—all of her siblings. Curiosity won out. Every single time.

"Did you ride out to meet the hunt? Are they returning?"

The smiles faded. A nervous sort of air swirled about them, the men looking at one another as if suddenly unsure what to say.

"Don't know if the hunt's returning, my lady," said the youngest man, likely younger than she. A fine dusting of hair covered his chin—no doubt his attempt at a beard. "We didn't ride out to meet them."

"Oh." Sansa blinked, peering curiously at the sacks they carried. "Those are not deer, then?"

"No."

It was not the young man who answered. That was the voice of Sandor Clegane.

"No, little lady," he rasped, making the word _lady_ sound like a taunt. "That's spoils of a different sort of hunt." Slowly, he stalked towards her.

"Clegane…"

Another man—Ser Addam?—placed a hand on his shoulder, but Ser Sandor shook him off and turned to glare.

"Clegane, this is hardly suitable for a lady—"

"The lady seems curious enough."

Sansa still had no notion of what either man was speaking, yet Ser Sandor was at his horse once more, tugging his great bundle from its back and throwing it to the dusty ground. It landed with a leaden _thunc_. Sansa felt her stomach turn.

With his toe, Sandor Clegane flung open the rough wrappings. A body lay within. The body of a young man, his midsection nearly severed, rusty blood caked to the gash.

"By order of Prince Joffrey, this is what we hunted today—weavers of spells intended to drive him to insanity. Grievous traitors to the crown, these. I'd watch you actions, little lady, lest you be accused as well. I believe you knew this one here."

And she did. For it was Mycah, Arya's butcher friend.

He stood close to her now, so close she could smell the gamy mix of sweat and ripe blood radiating off his body in hot waves.

"I did tell you I was not kind."

The next thing she knew, Sansa was heaving the contents of her midday meal into the gardrobe.

**000**

She could not bring herself to attend dinner that evening. She could not move from her bed.

Late in the night, her mother slipped into her room, backlit by the warm glow of torches in the hall.

Sansa watched, silent and still, as her mother came to sit by her bed and placed a little bundle on her trunk.

"If you get hungry in the night," she said, holding her candle close and unwrapping it to reveal two cherry tarts, glistening like bloody gems.

Numbly, Sansa looked up at her. Her mother leaned down to kiss her forehead.

"I should think you and Arya have been punished enough."

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'd like to emphasise that Sansa has literally been going around Castle Darry carrying a wee potted weirwood tree all day. Just…picture that for a second. If I could draw/paint at all there would be so many funny portraits of my fic so far, you guys don't even now.
> 
> Update: I really really wanted to see this image, so I pulled out my primary school art class SKILLZ and did a very clumsy sketch [here](http://imgur.com/gallery/6TfYAZN)
> 
> Clever way to avoid drawing hands, no? (Guys I'm a writer not an artist please don't make fun of me.) 
> 
> There was also this. cute image done by NothingWasSimple. With COLOUR. They haven't even read this fic but I guess they were bored and also a really nice person. My soul is very happy today :)))))
> 
> Haha sorry that this chapter just kept expanding. Could I have done it in two separate chapters? Yeah, probably. That might have been better. As it is, 6,000 words might be a bit of Sansa Stark overload. That said, there was actually about 3,000 words of material I cut for a later chapter, so just be thankful it's not even longer. Anyway, I hope it was somewhat enlightening. Poor Sansa. I feel bad for taking away her rose-coloured glasses like this, but someone had to.
> 
> Also, just so we're clear: this fic will not be SanSan. Like…just no. This is not a Sandor Clegane redemption story, and there will be zero romantic attachments in that quarter. Now, if you CAN guess the ship I'm building, kudos to you. I like redemption arcs in general. I'm just not that into writing Sandor Clegane's If said ship upsets you, well, you have plenty of time before it sails.
> 
> Oh, and lastly, I thought I'd start recommending other fics at the end of my chapters, especially as I got to reading quite a few new ones recently while procrastinating. So, if you haven't yet read "Stannis the Black Stag" by IronT, do yourself a favour and read it. Like now. Fantastic, baddass, but still realistic young Stannis. Plus, it's Elia/Stannis, a ship that hardly exists, but definitely needs to be a huge thing.
> 
> See this link.


	31. Watcher in the Night

_Winterfell_

_Some Weeks Prior_

Jon could feel the cold damp of the Winterfell crypts seeping into his marrow. If he stood down here long enough, his teeth would start to ache from the cold. Jon was used to the ache now. Liked it, even. It took the edge off the constant gnawing in his gut. 

For days, he’d had the anger to tide him over, burning hot and keen in his belly. Anger at Lord Stark for the secret, anger at Rhaegar and Lyanna for their reckless lives, for their dying. Anger at the injustice of this world. Anger that his whole life had been whipped out from below his feet, leaving him scrambling on thin air. 

Yet it had not taken long for the anger to fade into guilt and despair. Now it chewed slowly at his insides, this slow, creeping pain, and Jon did not think he could ever be rid of it. Not now that he knew the truth. He tried everything he could to escape it: trained harder in the yard, rode harder with the scouts. 

Yet even in this escape, he failed. No longer could he prod Robb into a fistfight—their mutual way of releasing their anger through their childhood—for it would be unseemly for the Lord of Winterfell to be seen pounding fists with his bastard brother. And so, every moment of the day, Jon was restless and ill and grim, and at night, he tossed in his bed and could not find sleep. 

For the millionth time since that terrible day, Jon was standing now before Lyanna Stark’s statue in the middle of the night, a wilting bunch of little wildflowers in his hand, staring up at her face. She looked like Lord Stark. Jon looked like her. That much was clear. 

Arya looked like her, too. It had no doubt been the reason Jon had not been allowed on the hunt and kept away from the king’s gaze, especially in the company of his siblings. It was not to spare the Lannister queen the insult of a bastard under her nose. Of course _Amma_ would not care about the feelings of Cersei Lannister. It was so King Robert would not look at Jon’s face and see Lyanna Stark. 

Jon should have known. Everything seemed to fit now, all the mysteries of his childhood, all the vague answers Jon had encountered. 

Absurdly, Jon remembered with squirming vividness the day Lord Stark had lined up the four oldest boys in his solar after Robb had asked him about a joke Theon made. Jon could still see him pacing the chamber as he told them of bedding, could still remember feeling the chill down his spine as he recounted in detail the dangers they could put women through if they were not careful with where they spilled their seed. 

Theon and Sam had nodded solemnly, but Jon had seen Robb’s face turn white and felt his own stomach churn. Had he not thought even at twelve that Lord Stark had been warning him of the perils of fathering a bastard and killing some poor girl in the process? Jon had believed then that it was guilt over the way his birth mother had died, but now he could see how unthinking his conclusions had been. Lord Stark would not have broken his marriage vows, even if he had not known Robb’s mother well. 

How had no one seen the truth in all these years past, he wondered now, staring at his mother’s dead eyes. How had King Robert and the late Lord Arryn simply believed that Ned Stark would dishonour his first wife? Did they know him not at all? How had his parents hidden his identity in plain sight these many years? 

No, Jon reminded himself. Not his parents. It was a constant pang these past moons, this slipping of his mind, and it rubbed like a sharp stone in his shoe, chafing his skin. Or...no… _Amma_ was still _Amma._ That was alright, for she had spoken true. Jon had always known that he was not of her blood. 

She was the one person his pathetic mind scrambled to cling to, the one person who was still the same in his life when all others were suddenly not who he had always known. Well, _Amma_ and Uncle Benjen. Jon had not thought to ask if Uncle Ben had known about him. Perhaps he ought to write to him.

But it was the hard, raw truth now that Lord Stark was not his father. Jon knew that these fine lines of distinction and reasoning bore no examining in the light, yet this was the conclusion he had made. There was no other way for him to manage. Everything was a tangle of knotted threads, dyed by an acute pain like a toothache he’d rather not touch, and all he knew now was that he must stop calling Lord Stark _father_ in his mind, for he no longer had the right. 

The day before the royal party departed, Lord Stark had once again summoned Jon to _Amma’_ s library. This time, he had laid before him the plans he’d had for Jon. 

“I have rebuilt Moat Cailin because I intend you to rule it one day in Robb’s name. I intended, too, that when you should marry and take up your place at the castle, I would write to the king to ask that you are legitimised. You do understand, do you not, why I could not do it sooner? Why I must not do it now? The less heed the king pays to you, the better. But Moat Cailin is yours. The Stark name is yours. Nothing need change.” 

Those same words his mother had said in the godswood that awful day. They felt like a cruel jape instead of the comforting assurance they were meant to be.

Once, such news would have made Jon dizzy with miraculous incredulity. Once, it would have made Jon’s chest swell so that he floated up among the clouds. Jon Stark, Lord of Moat Cailin. He would have revelled in the sound of that for many days indeed, even as he felt the wistful loss of the thrill scouting always brought him.

Yet now, that was the smallest of his worries. No matter scout or lord, there was an ugly, stubborn corner of him that insisted he did not deserve the Stark name. Not by rights. Not by fact. He could never be Jon Stark. How could he let the rest of his life be a lie as well? 

_My father was Rhaegar Targaryen, for all that I have no right to the Targaryen name either._

He had nodded wordlessly and thanked his father stiffly. _No, not my damn father!_ He had remembered that when he’d bowed, though, and called him Lord Stark. Perhaps it had been wrong of him. Part of Jon had felt wrong, felt ugly and murky inside. Even if Lord Stark’s face had not flashed with pain, Jon knew he had been thankless and petulant and mean. Yet, just as he could not bring himself to tell Arya or Robb of this terrible truth, he could not call Ned Stark ‘father’. He had no right any longer, now that he knew who he was. 

As he always did, Jon lost track of time, standing there peering up at Lyanna’s statue in the torchlight, staring at her face, cold, smooth and beautiful. Like snow that had been hardened by the cold. She did not look as he had imagined from _Amma_ ’s words. He could not imagine this still face alight with life and spirit. Even when he closed his eyes as he lay sleepless in his bed, he could not see her features thawing from stone into flesh. This was his mother, then, this lady of stone. 

He had passed by her statue many times before, but he had never before stopped to look at her. Why would he? She was only an aunt he had never known. This woman who had given him life…all these years he had never given her a second glance. Jon set down the flowers. They lay limply at her feet, a few petals already setting into the pedestal, already dying.

The throbbing pain was insistent in his chest, hot and festering despite the chill. _So very young—younger than you are now._ She had been but sixteen, Jon knew, when her life had been cut short. _Because of me._

All these years, Jon had known vaguely that his mother had died at his birth, but only until now, when there was a name and face to her, did the truth of her death hit him square in the chest. She had given her last breath and lifeblood so that he may live. 

He wondered suddenly if Robb had been haunted by this knowledge all his life. 

And worse, graver still, it was not only Lyanna Stark who had died. There had been three knights of the Kingsguard at the tower, guarding Jon, protecting him. Lord Stark had brought six of his bannermen to Dorne, and they had fought for his sake. Eight men. Dead. 

_Amma’_ s brother had died because of Jon. Lord Stark had lost his men—his friends—because of Jon. And here Jon stood. All those deaths, all that suffering, and what did he have to give that was worth anything at all?

And what of Princess Elia and her children? His brother Aegon. His sister Rhaenys. Just names to him, swirling in his mind, for they had been reduced to bloody corpses, and Jon could not escape the blame for that, either. Oh, he had read Princess Elia’s faded letter—folded into a tiny square and tucked way with Rhaegar’s ring—giving Rhaegar and Lyanna her blessing. Still, for the prince to leave his wife and children behind…did he not have a duty to protect them, even if he acted on his honour to save Lyanna from the mad king? And did it never play on Lyanna’s conscience that Rhaegar already had a wife?

And the war…at once his mind was filled with the details of history lessons, details Jon had not even known he had truly learned when Maester Luwin had lectured. Of the three battles Robert fought at Summerhall, of the string of Hands the Mad King murdered for incompetence, of the clash of armies at the Trident and Rhaegar’s rubies scattering as his chest caved in. 

Rhaegar. Rhaegar and Lyanna. Selfish, selfish people, and careless, so careless. No matter the little details of mystery knights and the Mad King’s soldiers, had not Rhaegar and Lyanna been at the root of this rebellion? A war that claimed thousands? A war that killed Lord Rickard and Lord Brandon, Ser Arthur and Princess Elia? And what was Jon but the fruit of that war, borne from the blood of innocent, pointless deaths, poison on this earth?

Unbidden came the memory of a cozy dinner on a balmy summer evening, his siblings and parents, Theon and Sam crowded into _Amma’s_ solar—one of those nights when Father did not take dinner with his men in the Great Hall, but left aside his Lord face to smile at _Amma’_ s teasing and raise a brow at Lia’s antics.

Conversation had been lively, and at some point Lia had succeeded in coaxing Arthur to stick string beans up his nose. Jon could not remember how the topic had turned, for his parents rarely talked of the Rebellion, but this evening, someone brought up the name of Aunt Lyanna in passing, and twelve-year-old Sansa’s eyes had gone distant and starry.

“King Robert waged a war to get back his love. It is so romantic."

"Sansa Stark!”

Deathly silence froze over the chamber. The only sound had been his mother’s sharp voice echoing on the rough walls. 

“War is never romantic.” Her voice was so jagged that Jon half expected the air to bleed. “It is never a song, never a bard’s tale. Do not say so ever again."

Sansa’s eyes had gone wide, frightened, and her mother’s face had softened.

"Thousands of men died in that war, Sansa,” she sighed, and the room seemed to thaw, though gone was the warm uproar of only a moment ago. 

“Thousands died for King Robert’s pride, more than his love. Young men, boys really, for whom Robert and Lyanna and Rhaegar meant no more than names on the wind. Innocent women and babes whose only crime was that they were in the path of an invading army. ” Jon had snuck a look at his father then, but his face had become a frozen mask, his eyes fixed to a point only he could see.

“Good, honourable men lost their lives, and with their deaths cut wounds that could never heal, only scar. War is not a story, not a song, daughter. Do you understand me?"

Now, here in the darkness, Jon heard those words ringing in his ears, clear as if his mother stood beside him. Even at thirteen, Jon had heard the pain in her words, had understood that she talked of her own wounds, her own scars. Lord Stark was his uncle. Despite his scars, perhaps he felt an obligation to his own blood. But his mother...

Jon thought now that _Amma was_ a generous person indeed, for it seemed a miracle she did not hate Lyanna Stark, and an even greater one that she did not despise Jon for all that his birth had taken from her. 

**000**

Robb paced Lord Stark’s solar, restless heat rolling off him like waves, and Jon thought idiotically that he rather resembled a brazier, his red hair flopping like shifting embers. Before, Jon might have made a jape about such a resemblance, but now was not the time for jokes, even if he had the heart for them. Robb was not Robb at present. He was Lord of Winterfell, and Jon and Theon were in the solar to advise their lord, not to laugh with their friend.

Their lord had not yet asked for their advice. Or any advice. He had not said anything at all since Hallis Mollen had informed them that their outriders had apprehended a band of poachers and were bringing them back to Winterfell for sentencing. Robb had simply nodded at the news, dismissed Hallis, summoned Maester Luwin and Ser Roderick, and begun his pacing in silence. 

Yet Jon did not need words to understand the weight settling on Robb’s mind, for this incident of poachers was like nothing they had dealt with prior.

In the past moons since Lord Stark departed Winterfell, Jon and Theon had helped Robb through so many lordly duties that there had been some days when Jon thought his head might burst. When Lia had been abed and ill, Lord Stark had given them duties to attend, but they had not realised until now just how much he had been holding back.

Now that he was gone, Robb was well and truly Lord, with all the duties that entailed. From closing the accounts for the coin spent during King Robert’s visit to pouring over law and precedent to decide on smallfolk land disputes to answering cryptic letters from the Manderlys, Robb had been thrown head-first into the role, and Jon and Theon had been tossed unceremoniously in right after him. Any notions they’d had of their freedom at being left alone in Winterfell had long since fled like morning mist. 

“You will all rule over lands and vassals one day,” Lord Stark had told them that last morning, though Jon had not been able to meet his eyes. 

“Aid Robb in this business of ruling, and heed the words of Luwin and Roderick. I trust none of you will disappoint me.”

It did not help at all that Sam—(who, if Jon was being brutally honest with himself, had a quicker mind than all three of them put together)—had left when the royal party did, at last making a visit home after all these years spent at Winterfell. 

“Damn Tarly, skiving off when you actually have need of him,” Theon could always be heard grumbling when, after their morning training session, he, Robb and Jon filed into Lord Stark’s solar. Maester Luwin would place before them the bevy of letters from various lords and landed men-at-arms, and they would scramble to form replies on tariff restructuring, or pepper cultivation, or shipbuilding mishaps. 

Some letters were set aside for when they could write to King’s Landing and ask for advice, and others were filed for reference. Robb often wondered aloud how Lord Stark had done this work meant for ten minds all on his own, though Theon was sure the lords were taking this opportunity to test Robb’s metal by showering him with parchment. 

The afternoons were spent on the endless string of errands and tasks in the upkeep of Winterfell and the lands and towns surrounding it. Then, every sennight, an entire day was spent in the Great Hall, Robb rooted to the high chair as smallfolk came with their petitions. 

Some Robb could decide on the spot, but others had to be compared with previous cases and the laws laid down by Stark ancestors, and naturally, Jon and Theon were not exempt from the research. 

The days were long, though Jon was secretly thankful that he was left with little time to be showered with sideways looks from Robb and Theon about his strangeness of late. Yet today…poachers on their land was like nothing they’d encountered yet. For poaching was a crime that called for a punishment of blood. 

“There’s nothing for it,” Robb said, his sudden voice cutting the air. Jon looked up. There was a grim set to Robb’s mouth, but when he spoke again his voice was steady and sure. 

“There’s nothing for it. They are poachers of unknown origin, come to steal our animals. I will ask if they prefer to lose a hand or go to the Wall, and we will carry out the sentencing this day.” 

He was right, of course. Even his words and his endless pacing were unnecessary. Each lord issued tokens to their smallfolk, a sign of permission to hunt large game on certain days of the month and in certain areas of a lord’s forests. Each castle tended their own woodlands and game, and poachers from elsewhere took the food from the mouths of lord and smallfolk alike. There was no other recourse for poachers, and Jon could only hope now that the men would choose to join the Night’s Watch.

And it was not only because Lord Stark and Uncle Ben had long lamented the lack of men up at the Wall, even after they had begun paying the families of willing recruits for giving up a son, and the numbers of volunteers had soared in the past years. 

Jon did not wish to see Robb cut off the hands of men any more than his brother wished to do the deed. 

_Cousin,_ he corrected himself, and again felt the loss like a hole carved into his chest. _Damnit Jon, when will you learn?_

“That is indeed the sentence, my lord,” said Maester Luwin, and silence fell once more in the chamber. In the distance, the calls of men and the rearing of horses rose from outside the castle. 

Robb nodded slowly, then, before his eyes, Jon saw him draw himself up to his full height. 

“Theon, my sword,” he said, and, after another grim nod at them all, led them from the solar. 

**000**

There were six men standing in the bailey, hands and feet bound with fraying rope. The rest of their clothes—if they could still be called clothes—were frayed and ragged too, hanging from their thin frames, dotted with tears, any dye long faded to a pale grey. Their faces were grimy—the kind of grime one accumulated from fortnights of movement in the wilderness without a chance to properly bathe—and the skin that peeked from the tears in their clothes was chapped and scaly with cold. 

And they were skinny, so skinny. These did not look like evildoers intent on starving their smallfolk for the sake of extra coin. They reminded Jon of the men Lord Stark had executed as deserters of the Night’s Watch, but their faces did not hold the vacant, wild fear of the deserters. No, these men had set, determined looks, their eyes beady pebbles and jaws tight. 

Hollis stepped forward to address them. 

“Before you stands Robb Stark, Lord of Winterfell,” he announced, then turned to Robb. “My lord, these six men were found in the Wolfswood without hunting tokens, carting three freshly-shot deer behind them. They put up resistance against our guards, and two were very lightly injured. We have apprehended them and brought them to await your sentencing.”

Robb nodded. 

“Men, do you know the punishment for poaching on Winterfell lands?”

For a moment, none answered, and the air itself seemed to sink with the weight of the silence. 

Finally, one of the taller men spoke. 

“Aye, we know yer punishment, milord. Just our right hands, eh? Get on wi’it then.” One of his companions jabbed an elbow into his side. The first man grunted. 

“If you please, milord,” he added. 

Robb frowned. Jon knew that he must be just as curious about their tattered state as he was. 

“What is your name?”

A glare. “Kane, milord.”

“From whence do you come, Kane? You appear to have travelled many days to poach on our lands.”

Again, there was silence before he grudgingly spoke once more. 

“We farm the foothills of the Sheepshead.”

“Bolton lands, or Hornwood?” asked Robb. 

Jon saw Maester Luwin frown as if recalling something troubling. 

The man let out a laugh, and it was ugly and grating and lifeless. 

“Who can say? We pay taxes to the first men what come to collect. This year it were the Boltons, but Lord Hornwood’s men beat them to it the three years ‘fore that. And when the other men come, well, we haven’t anything left to give save the food from our mouths. They don’t want us all starvin’ to death, see, so they leave us to our rations another year.”

Robb’s frown was deepening, and Jon could feel his own brows knotting. 

“Then whose land do you have hunting rights on?”

Kane shrugged. 

“Some ’o’ us got tokens from Lord Hornwood. Some from Lord Bolton. Not like we use them. Can’t catching nothing bigger than a rabbit in the woods allowed us, not in the thirty years I’ve been kickin’.”

Jon saw Robb swallow, and he knew his brother was having trouble keeping the anger from his voice. What were Lord Hornwood and Lord Bolton doing, playing so loosely with land and taxes, allowing their smallfolk to live in uncertainty for decades?

“So you have always poached the lands around you? Why have you crossed the White Knife into Winterfell lands this year?”

“We did no such thing!” 

It was not Kane’s voice that rang in the yard now. The shortest man had somehow scrambled off the ground, his face red as he shouted, spittle flying from his mouth. 

“We ain’t no poachers. You think we want to break your damned laws and risk our hands? You think we like sneakin’ round the woods in the night just to keep our bellies full? Huh, mi _lord_? Do you know the sound of your babes cryin’ ‘cause they ache from hunger?”

A round of tuts and admonitions of “Rhys, settle,” came from the other bound men, and finally the man called Rhys was made to kneel on the ground once more. Jon felt his head swim. Had it really been last night that he had stood in the crypts and lamented the gods for their injustice to him? Beside him, he thought he heard Theon mutter “fucking hells” under his breath. Robb closed his eyes, his hands closing into fists. 

“Tell me all, from the start,” he finally said, addressing the taller man who had spoken before. 

And so the story came out. There were about fifty families living in the foothills, spread out in little settlements. Farming yielded barely enough crops to survive, even in the summers, and so they frequently hunted small animals in the sparse woods around their farms. For generations they had lived thus, and though winters were always harsh and deadly, they managed to make do with stored food and the occasional fish from long fishing trips to the White Knife. 

This year, however, even the small animals were suddenly nowhere to be had, and upon reaching the White Knife, it was as if fish bigger than minnows had never lived in the waters. Some families chose to dig into the rations they’d saved for winter, while others cut their meals to one a day, then two every three days. 

They sent representatives to both the Dreadfort and Hornwood to ask for access to other, more fertile woods, but the replies had been the same: game was scarce everywhere, and they would have to make do. 

Fearing outriders from both castles would now know to look for poachers, the men of the settlements decided that it would be best to send a group of the most capable over the river into Winterfell lands, hunt as much game as they could, and cart it back home to share. These men had been chosen, and they had chased a herd for days in the Wolfswood before they’d managed to fell a few to take home. 

As Kane’s voice died, a silence like death had settled among the guards in the bailey. Finally, it was Robb’s voice that broke through the stillness. 

“I see,” he said, and his hand crept to pinch the bridge of his nose in a motion so like Lord Stark that Jon had to blink twice, despite the red of his hair. 

“I see. You were…I see.”

He wanted to pardon them. The whole yard of men could see that, clear as day. Jon wanted Robb to pardon them, too. He wanted Robb to let them go, feed them roasts and stews and cakes from the Winterfell kitchens, and send them back with cartloads of grain and meat. Jon would give up his own meals if it meant they could feed these men.

Gods knew he had never starved a day in his life, never even been hungry for more than a few hours. Gods knew he had never had arms so thin.

Maester Luwin could see it too. His strident cough pierced the air.

“My lord—”

“Yes, thank you, Maester.” Robb’s voice sounded like the crunching of dead twigs below a boot. 

“This is a matter I will treat with the utmost urgency,” Robb said, turning to the men on the ground. “I will send word to Hornwood and the Dreadfort post haste, and I will ensure that your families are fed. However.”

He swallowed again, and Jon could almost feel the ache of it in his own throat. 

“However, you have still poached on our lands. If I pardon you now, there will be no justice to be had in the North. You have said you understand the punishment. Which do you choose? The Wall? Or to part with your right hands?”

Kane gave Robb a dark nod. 

“We’ve all talked this through ‘forehand, see? We’ll give you our hands, milord. We’re needed back home.”

Jon was going to be sick. Right now. He was going to retch his breakfast all over his boots. These were the best men that group of smallfolk had, and now they would all be cripples.

Yet, Maester Luwin was right. There was nothing Robb could do. Jon knew that much, at least, about ruling. If you start making exceptions, there is never a place to stop.

And what choice was there for these men, in the end? Even short a hand, they were more help to their families back home than at the Wall. It was not as if criminals headed for the Night’s Watch garnered compensation for their…

“My lord!”

The words left his mouth before he had a chance to think better of it. No matter. He was not the one to make the decision. He would give Robb options, and let him decide. 

Robb looked up wearily.

“I beg but a word.”

After a moment of hesitation, he nodded, and Jon approached. 

“Jon, please, you know I have no other choice,” Robb hissed as soon as Jon was close enough to her his whispers. “I don’t like this any more than you do, and I’m the one who has to take off their fucking hands.”

There was a frantic glint at the bottom of Robb’s blue eyes. Jon put a surreptitious hand on his arm. 

“No, listen, I’m not asking you to pardon them. But what if you offered them the terms regular smallfolk get when they join the Wall? A gold dragon for each man, paid in bronze stars to their families? Perhaps that would change their minds.”

Robb’s eyes narrowed in thought. 

“Would they accept? Sounds like they are removed from any towns. Could they even make use of the coin?”

Jon could only shrug. He had not a clue. He did not even know how much food or equipment they could buy with a gold dragon. Perhaps only a cow. Perhaps enough supplies to set a new farmer up on untilled land.

“I don’t know. But from the sound of it, most of their farms haven’t had surplus in decades. Their plows and scythes must be worn down and rusted, and their cattle old. The trading boats should be coming up the White Knife soon. It’s worth a try, to ask them.”

Robb worried his lip.

“I will have to keep it secret from even our guards. No one must know these terms, and I will have to send Ser Rodrik himself to deliver the coin.”

“I agree.” 

Jon straightened then, remembering himself and making a short bow before retreating. Theon gave him a questioning look from the side of his eye, and Jon mouthed ‘later’ as Robb beckoned Kane up to his seat. 

They spoke in hushed voices for some moments, then Robb ordered the guards to cut the ropes binding the men. They huddled together in the centre of the bailey yard, their whispers whistling in the air. Finally, Kane broke away and turned to face them once more. He still had that hard set about his face.

“Aye, milord, we’ll go to the Wall. There ain’t much to trust no more, but a Stark’s word is one of them.”

**000**

They had received word a fortnight prior that knights from the Reach were sailing up to Torrhen’s Square with criminals and recruits for the Wall. They would be staying a night at Winterfell, and so that afternoon, Robb dispatched the Sheepshead men to some empty barracks while they awaited the Reach party. He had sent Roderik to the foothills post-haste with the coin promised to the families, and if all went well, the men would have confirmation that they were indeed compensated before they started for the Wall. 

“Do you think Sam will be returning with those knights,” Robb asked one late afternoon some days later, letting out a long breath and slumping in his chair. They had been pouring over records of judgements from generations past, looking for ways to compel either Hornwood or the Dreadfort to take responsibility for those families in the foothills. He had no desire to pit the two lords against one another in a dispute over territory, and could not even write to Lord Stark for guidance, for he was still on the road. 

“Maybe he’s read something about one of their ancestors claiming the land and can point me right to it.” 

“If he’s ever coming back,” Theon said darkly, looking up from his records. “Can’t imagine why Old Man Tarly hasn’t summoned his heir back to Horn Hill all these years, but now that he is back, he’ll surely want to keep Tarly there for months.”

Jon shot Theon an annoyed look. 

“You know why he never summoned Sam. Heir or no, his father never writes. Sam’s not exactly Randyll Tarly’s ideal of an heir, I reckon. Can’t imagine a visit home is easy for him.”

It was entirely the wrong thing to say to Theon, and Jon knew it the moment the last word left his mouth. Theon, at _Amma_ ’s insistence, had always written letters home—every moon turn for all these years. Yet while his mother sometimes wrote back, and his sister often, Balon Greyjoy had only written twice—once when Theon turned twelve, and one when he turned sixteen. 

Indeed, Theon fixed Jon with still, frozen eyes for a moment, his jaw working, nails digging into the table. Then he shook his head like a wet dog and returned to his parchment. 

The Reacher men and their band of recruits arrived ten days later, the knights with their silvery armour and summer-coloured banners looking out of place against the pale snow and dark pines. Robb stood in the bailey with a newly returned Ser Roderik, directing the knights to their chambers, the men to the barracks and the criminals to the dungeons. 

Jon spotted Sam towards the back, his hulking form covered in dark furs. When he dismounted, Jon enveloped him in a tight embrace, and it was only when he pulled away that he realised Sam had looked more awkward than usual as he came off his horse.

“Are you alright, Sam? What happened to your leg?”

Sam offered him an expression that was half smile, half grimace. 

“Just…just a hunting accident,” he said, making an exaggerated shrug. “It’s almost better now. Not much moving on a boat, is there?”

Something was very strange about Sam today. Off. He was doing that nervous sniffing before his words that he did when there was something he thought he ought to say, but did not know how.

“Well. Um, where’re your trunks? And you should get Maester Luwin to look at the injury, just in case. Jeyne says she ordered a bath to your chambers when she spotted you over the hill.”

Another nervous grimace that was trying to be a smile. 

“Oh. That…that’s awfully nice of her, isn’t it?”

“Um, yes.”

“Yes.”

A pause.

“Sam? Your trunks?”

Another pause. Then he half-limped back to his horse, pulled the heaving rucksack from its back, and dropped it down on the ground between them. 

“I don’t have my trunks. This is all I brought from Horn Hill.”

Jon stared at the bulging bag—its leather straps fading, its weave worn thin in the corners—then back at Sam’s face, uncomprehending. 

“What?”

“I…I’m joining the Night’s Watch. Jon. So, you see, I haven’t got much use for most of my things anymore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Someone needs to give Jon a through analysis of history because I SO don’t agree with the whole idea that Lyanna marrying Rhaegar was what caused the war. But with Jon’s current state of mind, of course that’s what he’d conclude. 
> 
> About the poaching…guys I have no idea how these things work. It just made sense to have these token things that I completely pulled out of thin air, though the whole poachers plot line came from u/Kingofireland777 and u/Theredeeme on Reddit. 
> 
> Happy Valentine’s Day btw. I’ve been toying with doing a fluffy one-shot of Ned and Ash from my story. As I don’t have anything specific on my mind at the moment, I’d love suggestions/requests for something short :)
> 
> And lastly, if you’re well-versed in canon/lore and would like to help me out with planning and future plot arcs, please reach out! One of my betas is super busy at the moment and won’t be able to do much discussion with me for a while. I really get ideas from bouncing my thoughts off of someone else, so you would be contributing greatly to the creation of this fic.


	32. PART II: King’s Landing

_On the King’s Road_

The morning their party departed Hayford Castle, Ashara pulled up alongside Ned’s horse in the slanting light, her hair glowing like embers in the rising sun. 

Despite his soreness and fatigue, Ned smiled, though he raised his eyebrows in surprise. She had not ridden since Darry, insisting that, with Renly and Ser Barristan joining the royal party, she’d best act like a proper southern lady and ride in the wheelhouse. Ned doubted that was her real reason—when had she cared about such things—but with all that had occurred at Darry and Robert’s stormy demeanour since, he hadn’t had the mind to question her about it. 

“What happened to all that talk of propriety?” he asked her now, only half teasing. She cleared her throat and sat up straighter in her saddle. 

“Can a woman not change her mind? I’ve decided it would not be unseemly for me to ride after all.”

“Is that so?” He did not take his eyes from her, and finally, she sighed.

“If you must know…with you being called to accompany the king every other day, I thought it best not to chance gaining myself an unwanted riding companion.”

Ned blinked.

“What?”

“I uh…did not wish to invite Ser Barristan’s company,” she finally said, her voice dropping. “He would have come to ride with me when the king had no need of him, and it would have been excruciatingly uncomfortable for both of us.”

Her words were so near nonsensical that Ned was not sure he heard right. 

“Why would Ser Barristan Selmy…what?”

Ashara sighed again.

“It happens that I caught Ser Barristan’s eye when I first arrived in King’s Landing. He sought my company often on Dragonstone, and those instances were always…well, as I say, awkward. And as things stand, it appears his attentions have not changed all this time.”

Ned felt his jaw go slack. He had not noticed Barristan Selmy looking at Ashara in any particular manner, but then, with the other matters weighing on his mind, he had taken no note of Barristan Selmy at all since he'd joined them. It was not as if Ash could be wrong about this. 

That familiar sharp irritation began in his stomach. ‘The perils of marrying a beautiful woman,’ a laughing Brandon had told him, all those years ago at Harrenhal, when he’d caught Ned glaring at some young knights who were gawking at Ashara. ‘So long as they don’t challenge you for her hand, there’s no need for violence.’

Wise words he’d since lived by. Some of the few wise words Brandon had said to him, Ned thought with a pang, and quickly reined back his mind, for it was too early in the day to bear thinking of his brother. 

“Have I shocked you?” she asked at his silent frown, giving him a half-smile. Ned felt the irritation fade. 

“’Tis only…I would not have expected it from Barristan the Bold. And it has been near two decades since he’s laid eyes on you. You’d think, with these many years—”

Her eyebrows shot upwards, and Ned caught himself just in time. 

“Pray, my lord, what were you about to say?” She blinked her big eyes up at him, the picture of innocence, but he knew better. 

Ned coughed and turned back to the road, and beside him, Ashara broke into a laugh. 

“Oh Ned, you aren’t wrong. It is rather shocking. What girl does not find a few eyes on her at seven and ten, but I am nearing forty. One would think a passing infatuation would have faded by now.”

He coughed again. Despite the levity, this was never a conversation he particularly enjoyed having.

“The very name of Ser Barristan rankles now,” he said under his breath, “but if I am being fair my love, you do not possess a face that fades easily from a man’s memory.” She blushed and ducked her head to hide her smile.

“Somehow I always wish to hear you say such things, even when I know it’s flattery.” 

“So tell me then,” Ned said after they had ridden some moments in a sweet, warm silence. “What brought you out of hiding this day?”

She was resisting the urge to roll her eyes, he could tell.

“I was hardly in hiding. Only…avoiding inconvenience.”

Ned laughed. 

“Call it what you will, but you have not answered me.”

Her face softened then, and she worried her lip, looking into the distance.

“Ashara?”

“You rode with Robert in the morning, and I did not think he would summon you again.”

“No doubt you are right.”

He waited, for there was surely more. When she turned to him once more, there was a frown so weary lacing her features that Ned felt his chest squeeze. 

“We will surely reach the city today.” She met his eyes. “If I must brave the place once more, I intend to look upon it head-on as we pass under the gates. No silk curtains. No wheelhouse.” 

He looked at her for what seemed a long while. Sometimes Ned thought there was a warrior’s essence at her core.

“You are right,” he said again. “You do not hide.”

A corner of her mouth lifted.

“Not when I have you next to me. But that is enough of this lofty talk. Tell me, has the king left instructions for you for when we reach the city? Spoken of any news?”

For the second time on this journey, Robert had summoned Ned before the sky had even begun to pale, wishing to ride through the dewy woodlands around Castle Hayford. This time, thankfully, he had done naught but lament his wife and son and the stifling city he would soon return to. 

Ned had felt that frustrated anger set in again, the urge to yell and rage at Robert for being so blind to all he had. Joffrey still called him ‘father’. Joffrey still sought his approval and did not look away in shame when he spoke to him. Yes, the prince was well on his way to becoming a tyrant with the way he had tried to hurt Arya, but why did Robert not spend more time with the boy, guide him and teach him? Did he not understand what a gift a son’s regard was to a man? And did Robert not owe it to the realm to teach his heir?

But Ned said nothing. He was not entirely sure how to broach the topic, and Robert was the king now, after all—not just his friend. And besides, he had not been of a mind to argue. Not when he had been fraught the entire ride, expecting more unwelcome news about the Lannisters or from Jorah Mormont regarding the Targaryen girl. Ned hoped never to hear Robert speaking of pardoning the murdering madman again. 

Twelve years past, they’d received word that Jorah Mormont’s lady wife was suffering from a wasting sickness, and Ashara had sent Yli the Rhoynish healer up to Bear Island in a last attempt to save her life. Yli and her fermented potions had brought the woman back from her descent into death, but news arrived a year later that she had died in childbed, leaving behind a sickly son. 

All was well for some time, but not long after Jeor Mormont left to take the black, Jorah’s young son took suddenly and gravely ill. Jorah Mormont had travelled to Essos in his youth, and in a desperate attempt to save his child, the lord of Bear Island had erected a pyre and burned four poachers alive in some sacrificial ritual to an Essosi god. 

The boy had died anyway. 

Ned had sons too. In the darkest of nights, Ned thought that he could understand what drove Jorah Mormont to this mad inhumanity, but to burn four breathing, feeling men alive...the way his father had been burned alive…there was no forgiveness for that. 

Yet, by the time Ned had made the journey west to carry out justice for the sickening atrocity, Jorah Mormont had taken ship and fled. And that cowardice Ned could not understand. 

Now he spied for the shiny-headed Varys, (the thought of whose letter and map all those years ago at Storm’s End still made Ned’s blood go cold), and Robert wished to pardon Jorah in exchange for information that might lead to the murder of yet another child. Silver-blonde hair stained with blood. He did not know what this Daenerys Stormborn looked like, but he could still see the pale hair of the babe peeking from that mess of infant bones and brain. 

Perhaps Ashara had been right. In the past months of travel, the realisation that perhaps Robert truly was no longer the brother Ned once knew had been slowly seeping into his consciousness, spreading black and putrid like contamination in a wound. Or perhaps Ned had lost Robert twenty years back when he’d sat himself for the first time on the Iron Throne with the Targaryen children at his feet.

“No, nothing,” Ned told Ashara now, unable to keep the frown from his face. “He did nothing but complain about his wife and sons.” The very word ‘son’ made him flinch, for all that he tried to hide it. The matter of Jon, too, was like an open wound gouged always into the back of his mind.

Ashara was studying him with that alert gaze of hers, and Ned knew he could not stop her seeing right through him. Sure enough, she drew in close to him, both their horses slowing, and reached out to take his hand in her very warm one.

“He will come ‘round,” she said, her voice low but sure, and Ned knew she spoke not of Robert, but Jon. “He believes this knowledge means that everything he knew about himself was a lie. He only needs to realise that nothing of importance has changed one whit. Give him time.”

Ned nodded. Ashara was rarely wrong about their children. He hoped that she was right in this. He hoped that he had not lost his son forever. What else was there to be done save hope?

**000**

In the late afternoon, Ned and Ashara rode through the towering bronze gates of the Red Keep behind Arya and the twins. In the courtyard, Elia had already dismounted and was spinning about on the spot, head tilted upwards and mouth slightly agape, taking in her new surroundings. Ned knew that look, and it seemed Ashara had spotted it too, for before he even spoke she was off her horse and pulling Elia into her so she did not run off exploring right then.

Before Ned could dismount himself, a harried-looking steward approached him, bowing very low. 

“My Lord Hand, Grand Maester Pycelle has convened a most urgent meeting of the small council and requests the honour of your attendance as soon as it’s convenient. My lord.”

Ned heaved himself from his horse, his bones rattling loosely in his tired muscles. 

“It will be convenient on the morrow,” he snapped, more sharply than he’d intended. The creeping fatigue of the road these moons past seemed suddenly to crash into him now that he did not face another day ahorse starting before daybreak. 

The steward bowed again, so low that Ned thought his beard touched the flagstones. "I shall give the councillors your regrets, my lord."

"No, damn it," Ned said. It would not do to offend the council before he had even begun. "I will see them. Pray give me a few moments to change into something more presentable." 

"Yes, my lord," the steward said. "We have given you Lord Arryn's former chambers in the Tower of the Hand, if it please you. I am at your and your lady wife’s disposal.”

"My thanks," Ned said as he ripped off his riding gloves and tucked them into his belt. The rest of his household, including the wheelhouse, were just coming through the gates behind him, but it would be a long while before their trunks arrived and Ashara could get everything settled.

“My wagons are still straggling through the city,” he told the steward. “I shall need appropriate garments."

“That won’t be necessary, my lord.” His wife materialised by his elbow, and Ned gave a start. When had she come back over? Ashara smiled at his confused face—that proper smile she reserved for smoothing over company. 

“I have a change of court clothes in the wheelhouse,” she said, then turned to the steward. “Has the Grand Maester told you specifics, my lord steward? This is most fortuitous timing for him to call the meeting.”

“Ah, uh, yes it is, my lady. But he has told me nothing, only that I am to invite the Lord Hand’s presence.”

“I see.” The smile deepened. “Well, please do ask my lords of the small council to wait a spell.”

When the steward had bowed his last and retreated, Ned turned to Ashara.

“You packed a change of court clothes for me in the wheelhouse? How did you know to do that?”

“Of course I did not. I’ve clothes for me, not you.” 

“What?” For the second time that day, his jaw went slack and his mind numb. 

“No matter,” she continued, blithely ignoring his question. “You won’t be needing to change. You’re not going anywhere save to the new chambers to bathe and eat and sleep. Look at the purple beneath your eyes.” 

She smoothed a thumb over his face, and he reached up to lightly catch her hand. 

“Ash, you did hear what the steward said, did you not? And I just agreed—”

She gave him a patient look. 

“Do you really think the Grand Maester has business so urgent it cannot wait until the morrow? That this business suddenly came about the moment you rode into the city? And did you not just speak with Robert this morning? If there really was urgent business he would surely have been told.”

Ned frowned. 

“You are saying the Grand Maester is calling a meeting just to inconvenience me?”

“I doubt it’s only Pycell’s doing, but I do know this meeting is superfluous and can certainly wait a day.”

Ned let out a breath. This possibility had not even crossed his mind. Already he felt as if he were drowning in the murky depths of intrigue, and he had not yet set foot inside the castle. 

“Still, I cannot simply refuse to go now. I’ve already said I would see them, and it would not do to offend them before I am even settled.”

Ashara scoffed. 

“Offend them? They’ve insulted you! You are the Hand, and the small council serve at your pleasure. They cannot summon you thus, least of all when you’re weary from months of travel. Every man in that chamber knows this, and yet they’ve called this meeting regardless.”

Ned pinched the bridge of his nose. So, this was some test of his strength. The very thing he had warned Robb the Northern lords might try on him once Ned was gone. And yet here Ned was, about to walk right into it like a green boy. 

“Oh, I did not mean to trouble you.” Ashara’s voice had softened, and she curled her fingers around his thumb. “This is why I am here, is it not? To scheme on your behalf?”

He laughed despite himself. 

“Aye, it is already clear that you and that scheming mind of yours will have to help me a great deal.”

“Very well. Go take the children and get settled then. And keep an eye on Lia.”

He felt his eyebrows shoot up.

“And you will not be joining me?”

“Well, you will not be attending the meeting, but you are right that it’s best we do not leave the lords waiting. So, I will go in your stead.”

Ned blinked at her. 

“Ashara…” He let out an uneasy breath. “Ash, surely you know as well as I that…well, _I_ know you are capable, but in King’s Landing—and you are a woman—not that—”

She laughed again, crisp and clear, and brought his hand to her lips. 

“Ah, but sometimes a woman’s limitations become rather useful. Do you trust me?”

“Of course, but—”

“Then _go_ my love, and trust me in this. I won’t be but a quarter of an hour, and I am weary too. Do have Corynne order me a bath.”

**O~O~O~O~O**

The council chamber had changed little since Ashara had last seen it that night she and Ned had been attacked in the godswood. The same Lysene tapestries hung on the walls, and the Valyrian sphinxes still glared at her with their garnet eyes. As the oak doors closed behind her, the four men around the table looked up at once like a group of gophers, each of their eyes growing wide. 

Varys the Spider was the first to remember himself. He was out of his seat in an instant, sashaying towards her and bowing low in a cloud of powder and saccharine perfume.

“Ah, Lady Stark. What an unexpected pleasure. A delight to see you so well after these many years.”

Ashara smiled and curtseyed. 

“Lord Varys. The delight is all mine. The years have not changed you one whit.”

The eunuch tittered, and a thin tingle shot up her spine. The man truly had not aged a day since she’d last seen him in Aerys’ court, and his entire being irked her just as much now as it had back then. 

“Well, Lady Stark, this is a surprise.” Lord Renly approached her now, and behind him, a slighter man who must be Petyr Baelish studied her with sharp eyes.

“We were under the impression Lord Stark would be joining us,” Renly said after they had exchanged pleasantries. “Though I daresay your company is always welcome, my lady.”

For just a moment, it was as if Ashara was nineteen at Harrenhal once more, meeting the Lord of Storm’s Ending for the first time. Even the manner of courtly flattery was the same.

Renly, who had joined them on the last leg of the journey, had clearly arrived in the city much earlier in the day, for he was clean-shaven and dressed in velvet fineries. In this, perhaps, he was less like the young Robert from her memories.

“Oh, I do apologise,” Ashara said when she returned to herself. “My lord husband will not be joining you today. Perhaps there was a misunderstanding with the steward.”

“Ah, Lord Starks’ tired himself out from riding after all, has he?”

It was Littlefinger who spoke. He had a jeering, almost derisive smile on his lips, and it took Ashara long moments to remember why he should be so hostile. Yet it was hardly an insult, surely, to admit that Ned was tired after months on the road. 

“Yes, I’m quite afraid you’re right, Lord Baelish. I hope you will all excuse a wife’s concern, my lords, but my husband was up before first light today to ride with the king, and I daresay the years are catching up with all of us.”

She crossed the room to the council table then, to a Maester Pycelle who was still making a show of scrambling to stand. Her stomach turned at the sight of his scraggly beard and the white spittle gathered at the corners of his mouth, the tales Dyanna Dalt and Moriah Qorgyle once told her creeping in her mind.

“Grand Maester, please, no need for such courtesies,” she said, gesturing that he need not stand. “I understand that you were the one to call an urgent meeting. I do hope it is nothing that cannot wait for the morrow.”

Pycelle made a wheezing sound. 

“Well…that’s…uh…it _is_ urgent, my lady, but uh…”

“It isn’t the maester who has the urgent news, Lady Stark,” said Renly as the other men came to join her around the table. He flashed her another charming smile before pulling out a tightly-rolled scroll. 

“This morning, my royal brother had me ride ahead with one of his rare commands. It was only right that we convene this meeting at once to discuss the urgent matter.”

Renly’s eyes met hers, and there was a smug laughter there that bordered on mocking. Oh, Renly knew that Robert could not give two figs whether they met about whatever this matter was today or tomorrow—that he would not even ask after specifics—and Renly could see that she knew it too. 

Ashara looked at the faces of the other men. Pycelle was staring into a far wall, Lord Baelish was smirking at her, and Varys had his shiny brow knit in concern. 

“My, this is a debacle, isn’t it?” Varys said. “I believe that letter is addressed to the Lord Hand. It is most unfortunate that he is not here, my lady.”

“Again, you have my apologies, my lords,” said Ashara, “and you in particular, Lord Renly. You must have waited a rather long time upon your return today so that you might call this meeting when my husband could attend.”

For a moment he seemed lost for words. She saw him exchange a look with Littlefinger, and could not keep her mouth from tightening with annoyance. It was growing clear now that all in the room knew exactly what the king’s ‘urgent’ business was, and, as she’d suspected, it was not urgent in the slightest. 

Finally, Renly laughed, and Littlefinger and Varys joined in. 

“Ah, no inconvenience, my lady. I only thought it best to give the king’s business our utmost priority, as is our duty.”

“Quite right,” said Pycelle, his voice rattling. “Quite right.”

“It is a shame that Lord Stark cannot join us,” said Renly, “though we will, naturally, inform him of all we discussed today.”

Ashara bit the inside of her cheek and tried not to glare. And how would that look—the Hand shirking a small council meeting on his first day in the post? This had been why she had come in the first place. 

“Well, my lords, I had come with the intention to beg your pardon and let you know that Lord Stark will convene a meeting as soon as is possible, but it appears that this news is urgent indeed. If you must discuss it now, I am certain he would understand.”

She took a seat—not in the Hand’s chair, but in the spot directly to the right of it, and gave the four men the sweetest smile she could muster.

“I am not nearly so learned in the matters of the kingdoms as all of you, but I flatter myself capable of understanding the basics. Please, proceed with your meeting, and I shall convey all I can to my husband.”

Silence. Ashara looked at each man expectantly as they exchanged looks with one another. Finally, it was Littlefinger who spoke. 

“I mean no offence, Lady Stark, but matters of the small council are of great secrecy and import. Your husband is Hand, not you.”

“You’re quite right, Lord Baelish. My lord husband naturally understands this secrecy and import, which is the reason he sent his wife and not one of our household to make his pardons. I have acted on his behalf before. I think I can manage today. Please. Do not let me keep you any longer from this urgent business.”

More silence, though this time it was punctuated by Pycelle’s wheezing breath. Ashara kept the pleasant smile glued to her face and sat patiently. As she expected. What were any of these men going to do? Throw the Hand’s wife out of the chamber? 

She would only have been in danger of such a thing had Stannis Baratheon been among the council, but they’d learned weeks before that he had returned to Dragonstone, no doubt insulted that Robert had asked Ned and not him to be Hand. Even if he were not insulted, Ashara could hardly blame him—or Robert, for that matter—for not wishing to keep company with these men. The only one who was mildly agreeable was Renly, and that was only a thin veneer of affability.

Finally, it was Renly who cleared his throat. 

“Well, seeing as Lord Stark has retired, it would be best if we awaited his summons.” 

The others muttered assent, and Ashara felt Littlefinger’s narrowed gaze on her. She smiled at him, then rose once more and inclined her head at the chamber door. 

“After you, my lords. And Lord Renly? Shall I take that letter to my lord husband? It is addressed to him from the king, is it not?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Sooooo. Things seem to be off to a pretty good start for Ned and Ashara, don't they? Ash seems to have things under control, doesn't she? One could say things are going well. A little…too well? 
> 
> Also, if you had been wondering where Arya got her scheming, trolling gene from...here it is. 
> 
> As usual, a huge thank you to my betas (Captain Fuckew McHugerage and CMedina), and also 1962strat, who spent literal hours the other night helping me work out some a huge chunk of plot. It will be a long time before I get to that plot, but they've given me so many cool ideas, and I'm so excited to work on them in the future :)))


	33. Reckless, Helpless, Fighter, Dancer

The queen's solar was hot and fuggy and close, and Arya wanted to peel off her own skin. Her hair stuck to the back of her neck, and she could feel warm sweat behind her knees and between her breasts, beading and itching.

Around her, the queen's ladies chattered on about nothing like flies over a perfumed dung heap. If she had to sit here another moment more, she was in danger of screaming until her throat snapped.

One of the ladies of some Crownlands lord laughed like a bleating sheep. She had not been one of the queen's companions on the journey and was now patting Sansa's arm solicitously.

"Lady Stark, your daughter truly is exquisite. You must play the high harp for us when you join us next, Lady Sansa," she said, and her smile was particularly ovine too.

"Lady Lynesse has sung your praises with the instrument. I'll bring my younger girl next time. She could learn a great deal from you—that is, with your permission, Your Grace."

The woman tittered nervously, and the queen gave her a lazy look of indifference.

"Mother, really." It was her older daughter who replied. This woman was bony, with fat, fish-like lips, and her eyes raked over Sansa, then her own mother with a damp sort of impatience.

"It would hardly be kind to inflict Lollys on the Stark girls so soon upon their arrival." She gave a high-pitched laugh at her own cleverness then, and turned towards Cersei as well.

"Wouldn't you say, Your Grace? Oh, but please do forbid my mother to commit such folly."

The queen gave her a thin smile and returned to her wine. Arya hid her eye-roll and tried her best to let their words zip by without entering her ears.

They had not been long in the capital, and this morning the queen had invited Arya, Sansa and their mother to her solar to do needlework and eat a light repast with her ladies.

Of course, Arya had not wished to attend, but the maid had specified that the invitation was for Lady Stark and her two older daughters, and Arya could hardly snub the queen, no matter that she wished to break the vile woman's nose.

Arya's only comfort was seeing how reluctant the queen was to have them in her company. Clearly this had been an invitation extended out of obligation, for Cersei Lannister spoke little, and when she was not glaring at _Amma,_ she was glaring at Sansa.

Her hostility made sense, naturally. _Amma_ was prettier than the queen, more likeable than the queen, looked younger than the queen and was generally more agreeable. Even now, among women she had mostly never met, her mother drew all their eyes and managed to make them smile and laugh.

Sansa was the same—like a younger copy of their mother, with her hair perfectly coiffed and not a single bead of sweat on her brow—and Arya was fairly certain the queen blamed Sansa for Joffrey's outburst at Darry. She might not be able to prove anything, but everyone saw how much time Sansa had spent riding with the prince in the days leading up to his madness.

Of course the queen had no time to look down her nose at Arya, who was the only one mending small clothes and not performing elaborate feats of embroidery. In fact, everyone in the solar ignored her. Not that it made anything better. She still had to listen to the annoying chatter of the ladies, and the heat and cloying scent of perfume-ripe bodies only made things worse.

Still, it was not as if Arya had anywhere better to be. Vayon Poole had not travelled with them, and these days past, Arya had been holed up in their mother's new rooms in the Tower of the Hand, making household budgets while Sansa directed the servants in setting up their new household.

They had been mostly left alone. Father and _Amma_ seemed suddenly busy with errands and visits, and the twins had been sent off to lessons with Tommen and Myrcella. The accounts were rather tedious work—she was good with numbers, but Arya did not particularly enjoy sitting before heaps of parchment and muttering sums beneath her breath—but not once had she thought to make an easy escape.

Not once had she had the urge to take her sword and practice in the yard below the Tower. Not once.

She had barely touched Needle since Darry. Ironic, because for so long she had been unable to come up with an adequate name, but the very day before they had reached the castle, Sansa had hit on the perfect one.

Micah had brought one of his father's kitchen tools to show them and satisfy Arya's curiosity—a huge trussing needle the butcher used to sew together a pig once it had been stuffed with herbs—and Sansa's eyes had nearly popped out of her head.

"Gods help us all, and I thought your leather needle was big, Arya. That needle's almost as long as that new sword of yours. Please don't fling it into any more rats. You scared me out of my skin last time."

Arya had looked up then, her own eyes growing huge.

"That's it! Needle!"

"What?"

Mycah had laughed, his voice earthy and smooth like a pebble heated by the sun. "For your sword, Lady Arya! That's fitting, ain't it?"

"For your…"

"Oh, Sis, you're a genius, you know that? Don't get used to my saying so, but it's true. Genius!"

No matter how sweet, that memory left a bitter taste on her tongue now. That day was so vivid—Mycah's self-satisfied grin at their shocked expressions so alive and real—but now he was bones and rotting flesh buried in a ditch somewhere near Darry, and Arya did not think she could feel the unadulterated joy of that afternoon ever again.

Sansa had not wished to tell her the details, but Arya had wrested them out of her. The Hound had cut Mycah nearly in half—severed his abdomen so that his liver and intestines hung from the gash.

For a spell, she had gotten it in her head that she needed to see his body, for she could not believe that someone who had, only a few nights before, been warm and breathing against her chest could truly be hacked into a bloody mess.

It had only been a glimpse of his father's wretched face that had brought Arya out of her idiotic notions. Of course the old man had buried him already. And who was Arya to him, anyway? Just the stupid, reckless girl who had gotten him killed.

She had wanted revenge against Joffrey. She had wanted to watch him suffer and fear, to make him feel what she'd felt in that flash when the Hound had lifted her by the collar and he'd come at her with his blade. Never had she imagined her plotting could take the lives of innocent people.

That hadn't been the plan. That wasn't meant to happen. She hadn't intended for any of it to happen this way, but her intentions meant less than the breath it would take to voice them. It had been all her fault.

All the smallfolk that Joffrey had ordered slaughtered had been at that Darry feast. Arya had asked around and knew it for certain. She did not know how Joffrey had picked them out, but of course he could not bear that they were witness to his pathetic display before the king.

And Mycah had been among them. Mycah had been a target—no doubt doubly so because Joffrey had seen him sitting in the grass with her and her siblings whenever they made camp. Arya had been the one to make Joffrey take note of him. And she had been the one who had gotten him killed.

Stupid, selfish girl.

Sansa had told her that she'd thought the executed smallfolk were felled deer when she had seen them wrapped and slung on horseback. She had told her, too, that Mycah's father had thought they'd brought him a pig to butcher when they gave him Mycah's body.

She felt her heart drop into her stomach, where it turned with bile and rose bitter in her throat. That was why she could not bear to practice with Needle of late. Every time she thought of her sword, she could see Mycah's smile and feel the way he had radiated solid, vigorous life. And then she would imagine those brutes cutting him down with their swords.

Swords that she, too, knew how to use; knew how to kill with if pressed, she was sure. Arya could not bear the thought of herself hacking and hammering like the butchers who called themselves knights, and so she stayed away from her sword and the practice yard.

"Arya?"

Sansa had been saying her name, she realised. Arya turned.

"What?"

"I said, would you like some apricot preserve?"

Sansa was holding a crystal jar of the golden spread dotted with flecks of garnet pepper. Normally, Arya's mouth would have watered, for this was one of the few sweets she could never grow sick of.

The Yronwoods in Dorne were famous for this spread, for only the apricots that grew in their rocky mountain highlands could be rich and tarte and fragrant with summer night air.

All Arya's life, a jar of the stuff was always on their table at home, and their whole family liked it on bread or porridge to break their fast—even Father, who generally did not take to Dornish food. Today however, no food had any appeal. She'd left her yoghurt and pastries untouched.

"No, I'm alright."

"Are you sure you don't want anything to eat at all?" Sansa asked under her breath.

Mutely, she nodded.

Sansa frowned, spooning more preserve into her own bowl, but quickly looked up as another lady spoke to her. Sansa had cried nearly every night between Darry and King's Landing—she had tried and failed to hide it from Arya—but Arya knew it was not truly for Mycah, or that she blamed herself.

No, Sansa knew she was not at fault. She cried only for the knowledge that some men held simply no goodness in their hearts—a truth that Arya could have told her at ten. That made Arya's thoughtlessness even more unforgivable.

The room devolved into talk of the preserves and other foods shipped from Dorne and the Reach, and Arya felt nausea swelling in a tidal wave up her chest.

She looked over at the queen. Cersei Lannister was leaning back on her cushions, swirling her wine, eyes narrowing like a lazy yellow cat. The kind of cat that was only ever nasty and tried to scratch your eyes out at every opportunity.

The queen had been complicit in Mycah's death and those of the other smallfolk. Cersei. Joffrey. And all those Lannister men: Sandor Clegane, Addam Marbrand…she had made sure to find out all their names, these monsters who treated people like beetles and so easily crushed beneath their thick heels.

She wanted to kill them all. In another life, Arya would have put the point of Needle through all of their hearts. But she could not. She was not some faceless assassin with no family and no ties. It was a prince who had ordered those deaths. It didn't matter that his reasons were ridiculous.

Her parents could do nothing—not Father, who was the second most powerful man in the realm now, nor _Amma_ , who had always taught her that to be just and fair was as close to godly as one could be—and Arya could do even less. Not without grave consequences.

Joffrey was set to be the king one day, and the king's word was law.

They deserved to die—Cersei, Joffrey, the Lannister men—and yet they could go about their lives as if nothing had ever happened.

And the worst thing was, Arya was too bloody scared to take justice into her own hands. Too frightened to act on her impulses to orchestrate some fall for the Hound or sneak a poisonous spider into Joffrey's bed. Not when she had caused Mycah's death with her first little revenge scheme. Not again.

The choking heat of the room suddenly made the air too heavy and dense to draw in, and Arya was trapped in her body with the walls slowly caving in. Her breaths came short. Never had she felt so helpless as she did when thinking about the injustice of that day.

"…developed a craving for it when I was carrying Arya, and it's never left me. Now I am rather a nuisance to my brother at Starfall, always pestering him to send more up North."

The sound of her name buoyed Arya out of her miserable musings. Her mother had her hand on another lady's forearm, and three more tilted their heads in to listen as she spoke.

"What's _Amma_ saying?" Arya whispered to Sansa. "What about me?"

Sansa gave her a little smile.

"They're talking of pregnancy and the cravings they've gotten. Apparently, before she carried you, _Amma hated_ apricot preserve."

Arya raised an eyebrow and felt a little humour returning like a migrating bird.

"Really? So, you all have me to thank for the constant supply back home."

Sansa laughed lightly.

"Truly," one of the Lannister ladies was saying now. "I regret none of the havoc my boys have wreaked on my figure. Anything to have them with me, the dears." She gave their mother a narrowed glance and a half sneer. "Perhaps it is only multiple boys that do damage to the figure. What think you, Lady Stark?"

Before she could respond, the queen's goodsister seemed to choke on her wine, and Arya could see the mirth on her reddening face. _Amma_ looked up, smiled, then looked down at her own wine.

"Lady Sylla, I've only borne one son, and him with a sister besides. Perhaps you should ask Her Grace. She has two princes, and ought to have more knowledge on the matter."

Even without looking, Arya could feel that Cersei's eyes had grown hard. For a long moment all was silent save for the stuttering apologies of Lady Sylla. The queen waited for her voice to die down, then pinned the woman with her eyes.

"I only know that some women simply get fat and stay fat." She downed the rest of her wine. "However, I do believe you when you say there is no regret in losing your figure. What would we mothers not do for our children?"

It was the queen's turn to sweep her gaze over their mother _._ Her eyes fell again on Sansa after that, but this time they glared at Arya too, and at once Arya was both cold with terror and aflame with rage.

"Those who seek to harm them. Those who seek to humiliate them. You've all heard of those beastly peasants at Darry, traitors determined to cause chaos in the kingdom by casting spells on the Crown Prince's mind. We only demanded their lives. They died too easily, I thought—not enough screaming—but Joffrey decided to be merciful. He understands that a king's justice is not to be equated with common revenge."

Was this rage flaring in her belly? Guilt? Or…Arya thought this was what a pig felt like as it watched its companion being slaughtered while it fought against its pen; wondering, perhaps, if it was next.

In a panic, the trapped feeling was back, hitting Arya like a suddenly-opened furnace, heat gnawing at her skin. Her stomach turned, the stench of the room trickling down her throat.

Suddenly, it felt like there was some crusty gremlin clawing and scraping at the inside of her ribcage, desperate to escape her tortured flesh. She could not breathe. She could not properly see. Black blooms were dotting her vision.

It took all of Arya's will to stand without falling over. She could hear the erratic gushing of blood in her ears, and the back of her neck was hot and cold and numb.

She felt more than saw the eyes on her.

"Arya?"

Arya didn't know if it was her mother or Sansa who spoke. Someone tried to take her hand, but she couldn't bear that contact. She couldn't bear anything. She needed to get out.

"I…I beg your pardon," she heard herself say from far, far away. "I am not used to the heat in King's Landing, and I think I might be lightheaded."

Someone rose to follow as she felt blindly for the door, but Arya shook her head. She could not have company now.

"I'm alright _Amma,_ Sansa. Please. Stay. I only need some air."

And she managed to stumble out the door and down a corridor before dry heaving over the side of the loggia, the carved marble digging into her ribs.

**000**

Arya clumped up the stairs in the Tower of the Hand, her feet leaden, though her insides had yet to cease their storming. She'd never had such a sickening spell of panic, and for another terrible moment she had thought she was going to die again. But no. It must have been the heat of the room. That was it. The heat…though it could not explain why she suddenly felt as if she had been running for days on end.

She would have liked to be outside, perhaps find Nymeria in the kennels and take her to the godswood, but if she encountered any of the Winterfell guards or servants in her state, they'd surely make a fuss.

Besides, she could not bear the thought of feeling the eyes of the court on her as she traversed the Red Keep to get to the godswood. And so Arya retreated to her chambers. Or tried. Why had she not noticed before how many floors were in this accursed tower?

On she climbed, her breath heavy and burning, past the servants' rooms, past Yli's makeshift apothecary and the little accounting room she'd been holed up in these past days. Whose wretched idea had it been to put the chambers on the uppermost floors? Her legs were starting to tremble.

On the next landing, Arya half threw herself up onto the flagstones, her panting echoing off the blood-stained walls.

"Who is it?"

She froze. Father's voice. It was only now that she noticed she had stopped on the landing that led to Father's new solar. _Bleeding, buggering hells._

Sure enough, Father appeared in the doorway, backlight by the midday sun. She squinted up at his silhouette.

"What…Arya?" He was at her side at once, and Arya scrambled to her feet before he reached to pull her up. He steadied her with a hand, and some of her simmering panic fled as she felt his solid support on her elbow.

"What's happened? Why—"

"I'm fine, Father. I just…I ran up the steps too fast and got winded is all."

Her eyes had adjusted, and now Arya could see he was frowning at her with concern. She tried for a smile.

"Gods, child, you gave me a fright." He tucked an errant bit of hair behind her ear. "Why were you running so fast?"

"Sorry," she said, and it came out as half a whisper.

"The queen excused you all from her solar already? It's barely been an hour. And where are your mother and sister?"

He craned his neck as if listening for footsteps below. Arya chewed her lip.

"The queen uh…hasn't excused us. I excused myself. I just…the room was really hot, the ladies are all horrible, and the queen is so vile."

He was still frowning, his eyes darting about her face.

"Are you sure everything is alright? You're very pale, Arya, and…"

He looked down at where he held her hand, and it was only then that Arya realised her fingers were ice-cold. She swallowed, hating the dry patch that had developed in her throat.

"I'm sure. I just need to…I don't know, lie down?"

She didn't think she'd ever said those words in her life, and Father's eyebrows shot up.

"Lie down?" His hand was on her sweaty brow. "I should send for Yli. You might be getting ill—"

"No! No, Father, please. I'm fine, truly. I'm not…well, I'm not ill _that_ way. It's only—I'm fine."

He studied her for a long while before he spoke.

"The queen's solar was too hot, you say?"

"Yes."

His eyes narrowed in thought.

"Come join me for a bit, Arya."

"I really think I should just go lie down—"

"At least come have some water after your mad run up the steps. And besides." He gave her a small smile. "I could use some company."

Reluctantly, Arya followed her father into his solar.

"Shut the door," he said, turning to pour her rose tea from a crystal pitcher. She took it gratefully, for the familiar scent was already slowing her heart to its normal pace. Perhaps her father was right. This would help.

He motioned for her to sit in a tufted chair, then walked behind his desk, tidying scrolls as she drank her tea in silence. The shuffling of parchment softened the air in the room, and from the open windows, a breeze smelling vaguely of the crisp sea swirled in. This was nice. It was like the queen's solar did not even exist.

Finally, when she had finished her second glass of the tea, her father cleared his throat and looked up at her.

"Feeling better?"

"Yes."

"Good." He dragged his own chair over to sit beside her. Arya tucked her feet up under her skirts so he wouldn't see her fidget.

"Good. Do you want to tell me what the queen did today that was so vile it made you ill?"

"…not really."

He gave her a half smile, but then his face turned sober.

"I think I can guess. Your mother told me how upset you were about the butcher's boy.

Arya did not answer right away, chewing at her lip, but Father waited with his patient, expectant eyes, and finally she was compelled to speak.

"The queen spoke today about ordering them killed. Mycah and the other smallfolk at Darry." Arya bit the inside of her cheek. "She…she made it sound as if she had been merciful. _Merciful._ She and Joffrey and all the Lannister men _murdered_ six people who had absolutely nothing to do with anything and…and…"

The words shot fast and hard, but caught painfully in her throat. She cast her eyes down and gripped her glass until the cut crystal dug painfully into her palm.

"I hate them all. I want to kill them all." She did not look to see if Father was shocked by her pronouncement.

"Yet all I did was sit there because there's nothing I can do. It's all my fault six people died, and there's nothing I can bloody do."

"Oh, no, Arya...dear girl, you mustn't blame yourself. You and Sansa shouldn't have done what you did on the road, but…gods, the queen and the prince should not have killed innocents. Their crimes were not your doing."

Somehow, Father had drawn her into his chest. She felt safe like this, like there was nothing that could go wrong with the world, and yet she could not allow herself to sink into this childish feeling. She didn't want to be comforted thus. Her mother had tried, and so had Sansa—telling her those same words—but Arya did not deserve to feel better.

Neither of them had understood, and perhaps Father would not either.

"It is terrible to say this, I know, and I am sorry all those smallfolk died, but…but it is Mycah's death that hurts most."

"Of course it is. There's nothing terrible in that. He was a friend to you."

The impulse occurred to her then, and suddenly she wanted nothing more than to tell her father exactly why Mycah's death had been all her fault.

Sansa had not been angry with her, though she had caught them, and if Arya told her mother about their nighttime meetings she would not be angry either, but Father…It would shock him, and perhaps then he would yell at her. Arya needed that, she thought. Deserved to have someone to rage at her and call her a horrible fool.

"He was…he was not just a friend," she said carefully.

"What do you mean?"

She kept her eyes fixed firmly to the flagstones. This was harder than she had imagined.

"I kissed him," she forced out. "I kissed him a lot. I would steal Alle's dress and sneak off to meet him behind the laundry carts in the evenings.

Silence. Father had grown like stone beside her. Arya did not dare look up. She could not even fathom what his face looked like at the moment.

Yet, when he spoke, his words were not angry as she had expected. They were not even stern.

"That was very reckless," he finally said.

"For him and for you. You are a lord's daughter, and this Mycah a butcher's son. Sometimes, with some things, you are not the one to bear the consequences of your deeds. If you'd been caught by the wrong people—the things they would have done to him—expected _me_ to do to him for daring to touch a lord's daughter…

"Arya, that was very reckless of you."

Every word hammered dully in her chest, made worse because he did not sound angry, only resigned.

"I know," Arya whispered, her voice hoarse. "I know that now."

She bit her lip, the sudden pain of the memory icy and shocking.

"That first night at Darry, Mycah hadn't wanted to come to the feast. His father hadn't wanted him to. He disapproved of Mycah being around the noble folk all the time. I didn't care. I wanted him there, so I half-coerced him and promised I'd dance with him."

She'd given him her most promising smile over her shoulder, and Arya had known he would come by the way his face had turned pink. Arya had always thought this was one of the few good things about being a girl. If a boy liked you, a smile and a promise could get him to do anything you wanted. She'd always liked this little power she'd discovered. She hadn’t known it was a curse in truth.

"That's why he was there that night—because of me. Because I knew he liked me, and I smiled at him. Joffrey saw him. I know he did. That's why he was killed. I made sure he was in that hall, and being there got him killed."

Her voice died into the quiet of the chamber, and for some time all she heard was the soft ripple of the curtains.

Father was still again, frozen despite the sunshine sprinkled about the flagstones. After what seemed an eternity, she heard him heave a burdened sigh, and when she snuck a look at him, he was pinching the bridge of his nose.

"Did you like him too, Arya?"

"Did I—what?"

"You say he liked you. Did you like him too?"

And Arya knew he did not mean simply as a friend.

Why did he not rage at her? Was he not shocked and angry?

"Yes. Yes I did. He was funny, and always smiling. And he was up for all sorts of adventure, especially when we were crossing the Neck, and never looked at me funny for not being the way normal girls are."

Arya bit hard into her lip again. He had been her friend too, before the kissing.

Father sighed again, and she thought she heard him murmur 'gods help me' under his breath.

"Arya? Arya, look at me."

Reluctantly, she raised her head to face him. She had never seen Father's eyes look so sad.

"Has Robb ever talked of his mother? Lady Catelyn Tully?"

Arya frowned. They all knew who Robb's birth mother had been, but Robb had never spoken of her. Why would he? He hadn't known her at all. She shook her head.

"I know you married her before our mother. During the war."

"Yes." He closed his eyes, as if shutting something out. "We were strangers at our wedding, for she was meant for my brother Brandon. We were only married a fortnight when I left her at Riverrun to go to war. Three moons later, she wrote that she was with child. That was the last I ever heard from her. After Robert took King's Landing, I received a letter from her father. Informing me she had died in childbed."

Arya thought she had known this in some nebulous form, but it had never been of interest to her.

"Oh..."

"For a long, long time, I could not shake the guilt that I had killed her. She was young—barely eighteen—and the maesters all say it is best that a woman not bear a child before then. I thought, if I'd left the marriage unconsummated—"

The childish bit of Arya's mind was covering her eyes and groaning at the terrible embarrassment of hearing her father talk of such things, but his pained face pulled at her heart.

"That's ridiculous," she interrupted him. "She died in childbirth. Lots of women do. How could it have been your fault?"

Father gave her a sad smile.

"I accept that now. But I tell you so you understand, Arya, that I know what it is to wonder how someone who had been breathing and speaking and warm under your hand can suddenly be cold bones in the ground. To wonder if you had somehow stolen their life by getting too close.

"Perhaps you were reckless in what you did with him, but you did not kill the butcher's boy. If you take any heed of your father's words at all, heed this. Mycah's death was not your fault. Do you hear, child? No matter what went on between you, it was not your fault."

Arya did not know when the terrible aching behind her nose broke apart into tears, but she found herself in her father's arms once more, sobbing great, trembling sobs as he held her tight.

"There now, darling girl. It won't always hurt so much. If nothing else, I can promise you that."

**000**

After she had cried herself dry as a raison, her father coaxed more rose tea into her and stroked her hair until she felt calmer and lighter than she had in weeks. When she confessed to him her reluctance to take up her sword once more, he considered it for A spell, then told her that she might want to take a turn with Needle about the castle gardens the next day.

"Must I?" she said, her nose scrunching. "The few times I walked there, the court people always stared, even though I was wearing a gown and not doing anything out of the ordinary."

Father raised his eyebrows.

"Arya, they stare for the same reason they stare at your mother and sister, not because they find you strange."

Arya looked at him from the corner of her eye.

"They stare at _Amma_ and Sansa because they're beautiful."

His eyebrows crept higher. Arya shook her head before he could speak.

"Doesn't matter why they stare, I suppose. Why must I go into the gardens?

For a long moment, she thought her father wished to say something else to her, so closely was he studying her face. But then he, too, shook his head and offered her a smile.

"You'll find, I think, a most interesting man by the name of Syrio Forel. I know you do not wish to partake in swordplay as you have been taught it, but from what I have heard, this man does not practice the way of Westerosi knights."

And so, the next day, she made her way tentatively to the court gardens, Needle tucked into the folds of her skirts with the straps of the sheath Sam had made for her. She was not disappointed.

The little man was in the middle of a spar with one of the Baratheon men-at-arms who was twice his size, yet he moved as if boneless, and in a few blurred twirls and a cloud of dark hair, he had his sword at the knight's throat.

Arya had watched, entranced, and soon she had found herself standing opposite this magician of a sword-fighter, Needle poised before her, her skirts tucked up at her waist and not at all caring if anyone gawked. And no matter how hard she tried, no matter how quick and light she made her steps, not once did she manage to break the smiling man's defences.

In the end, when she was sweaty and breathless and wholly exhilarated despite feeling the steel of his thin blade against her shoulder, this Syrio Forel had looked down at her with his eyebrow arched in humour.

"You are a girl with a weapon," he said in his lilting accent. "You are good with your weapon. But if the girl wishes to become the sword…come find Syrio Forel tomorrow."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Bit of a slow, bridge chapter, though the dialogue was rather enjoyable to write for once. 
> 
> If you’ve ever had a panic attack, I’m really really sorry! It can literally feel like you’re about to explode. Or die. Or both. Hopefully you weren’t in front of a Cersei Lannister when it started happening to you. 
> 
> Also…:) Ned Stark being a dad has been one of my fave things to write so far. And now I miss my own dad. There was a lot of this resigned “sigh, that was very reckless of you Lena” when I was younger teehee.
> 
> A side note on Ned’s fate: I’ve gotten quite a few comments over the past months saying “I hope Ned doesn’t die,” and I just want to assure you that he absolutely will not die. That was one of my “concepts” when I went in to write this fic: Ned marries Ash and therefore manages to keep his head. And this isn’t even a spoiler. Things will deviate from canon, so you’ll never get to wonder if Cersei/Joffrey is going to have him executed.
> 
> Another fic rec: All the Works and Days of Hand by Sookiestark. This is show canon from Roslin Frey’s POV, detailing her return to Riverrun and awaiting Edmure’s release and return by the Lannisters. It’s really beautiful, a breath of calm air in the tumult of the surrounding war-torn Riverlands, and has that sweeping yet tranquil feel I love for these character-study short fics. It’s complete with only 4k words, so it’s definitely worth a quick read. Again, really beautiful writing :)


	34. Maesters and Mockingbirds

"Did you manage to go back home when they buried your brother?"

In the little chamber that now served as her solar, Ashara reclined in one corner of the silk-strewn couch. Dyanna Dalt leaned against her, resting her head half on her lap, and Ashara combed her fingers absently through her friend's hair as they spoke. They'd worked through an entire flagon of wine already, and Ashara was tranquil and languid as an afternoon breeze wound about the chamber and rippled her silk dress against her skin.

"No," said Dy, heaving a soft sigh and smiling a sad smile up at her. "The venom took hold too quickly. There was never hope of saving him. The fever set in right away, and he never awoke from the hallucinations. He was gone and buried within a sennight."

Six years ago, Ser Paten Dalt had died from the sting of a dream scorpion while riding through the desert with his men, and now his eldest son Deziel, barely older than Robb, ruled as Knight of Lemonwood. Paten had always walked with a slight limp after his injury in the King's Landing riots the day he had killed Ser Armory Lorch, but he had nonetheless been one of Dorne's finest warriors, a reputation only exceeded by that of his honour.

His death by scorpion had been deemed by some to be a most unfitting end, but death was death. No matter what, it had come too early for Paten Dalt.

"Your poor nephew," Ashara sighed, for he had been but twelve when his father had passed. "At least Paten did not suffer in his dying."

"No, I daresay he did not suffer," said Dy. "My goodsister told me he kept mumbling to 'his love' in his fever dreams. I naturally did not write back that he did not mean her."

"Oh…" So he saw Elia in his poisoned sleep. That was, perhaps, not a horrible way of dying.

Another sad smile laced Dyanna's thin face.

"I wonder if Elia would be glad she held onto his heart until he could die to join her."

Ashara felt herself frown and her throat suddenly squeeze.

"I do not think Elia would be happy he has died at all," she managed, "young as he was."

"Hmm. You are right. Elia would have wanted him to forget her, perhaps nurture another springtime bloom in his heart, but we Dalts…" She looked up to meet Ashara's eye. "We're stubborn as mules."

Oh, that she knew. Dy had always been retiring and frail, but underneath her timid surface, there had always been an iron will.

"Do you know if she loved him?" Ashara asked now. Over the years, it had become clear that, while she'd had no secrets from Elia, her friend had kept secrets from everyone. Ashara did not resent it. Elia had always been a whole being unto herself and never needed to lean on another. Not like her.

Dyanna shut her eyes, and for a moment Ashara thought she looked as if in pain. Yet, before she could question her, the frown had dissipated.

"I'd like to think she knew, either way. And that his devotion made her happy, somehow. That's all that would have mattered to Paten. Not if she returned his love."

"Oh, Dy, I am so sorry." And she did not know if her heart ached for Dy's loss of her brother or for their shared love of Elia Martell.

They poured more wine and drained their goblets, both agreeing wordlessly to dissipate the veil of sorrow that had begun to settle about the brightly-lit chamber. Dyanna tucked herself into Ashara's lap once more.

"Would you braid my hair?" she asked, lifting a brow in self-mockery. "You always were the best at it, and it will be rather a fun diversion to have Aron fuss over my hair instead of his own."

Ashara laughed and complied, undoing the threads that bound her hair in place. Dyanna's hair had always been the envy of all their little circle of friends, for it was thick and silky and shone like the rich obsidian on Dragonstone. She set about braiding it anew as Dy stretched against the cushions and absently twisted a bit of Ashara skirt around her hand.

"Are you happy with him?" she asked after a long moment. It was clear as glass that Dyanna was not in love with Aron Santagar, but she had seemed content enough these weeks that Ashara had been in King's Landing.

"Aron?"

She laughed again.

"Well, yes, but is there another you have not told me about?"

Dy grinned up at her.

"No, there isn't some other man I am in love with. Aron and I are…friends, and we tend each other's needs well enough. Lovers are rather a tricky business in the city. You know how it is. And he's never shamed me for being unable to bear children, so yes, I am happy, rather."

It had been a good match, an alliance between the Dalts and the Santagars, but Ashara had always found it strange that Dyanna would want to return to King's Landing after the nightmares that once haunted her in the Red Keep.

"You do not mind being back here?"

Dy shrugged.

"'Tis not as if Her Sneering Grace demands my company each day. I don't have to walk the halls where the Mad King once roamed. And besides…as frightful as they could be, that year in this city and those on Dragonstone…I think they were some of the most radiant times in my life."

Some time later, a knock came at the door.

"Milady?" It was Corynne.

"What is it?" Ashara called.

"Lady Lynesse Hightower has sent over a gift and a note. Would you like to write a reply? Her maid is out here."

Ashara and Dyanna exchanged a look, and Dy raised a rather suggestive eyebrow up at her. Ashara sighed.

"Send her in then."

The girl had a basket filled with jars of Yronwood apricot preserve, and Ashara had to grudgingly admit that it had been a thoughtful gesture. Still, she hoped Lynesse Hightower had understood her refusal at Winterfell to be final.

After Ashara had written a quick note of thanks and sent the maid on her way, she turned, exasperated, to a grinning Dyanna.

"Oh, very funny," she said, returning a sideways look. She had told Dyanna of Lynesse Hightower's advances at Winterfell, not having the wisdom to leave out that she did not detect the woman's interest until she had all but spoken her desire aloud, and Dyanna had teased her mercilessly about the cold of the North dulling her senses.

"I spoke not at all," Dy said now, eyes wide. "But why has she sent you apricot preserve of all things?"

"They served it at the queen's solar the other morning. I told the ladies that Ned and the twins would be vexed they could not partake with us, and Lady Lynesse seems…to have been most attentive to my words."

Dyanna laughed her soft, floating laugh.

"But if she is still trying to play to your good graces, should she not have noticed you refused to touch it?"

Ah, it had truly been too long since she had seen her friends. Dyanna did not know that Ashara no longer hated the very smell of the spread.

Arya was fifteen now. Had it truly been more than fifteen years since she had set eyes on Dyanna Dalt? And her other friends—Larra and Moriah and Jynesse, each still in Dorne while she had sailed so far from them all. Sometimes, it felt as if her youth—their youth, spent amid the rainbow silks and crystal-cool fountains—had been lived by another woman entirely.

Before she could correct Dyanna however, another knock sounded on the door, faster and louder than before.

"Lady Stark?" This time it was Jaks, one of their household guards. Urgency laced his voice.

Ashara exchanged a frown with Dy, then called to ask his purpose

"Milord sent me, milady. He says there is news and requests your presence at once."

**000**

"Disappeared? How does a grown man simply disappear?"

Ashara and Ned stood in the Hand's solar as the two guards Ned had sent to summon Ser Hugh of the Vale recounted how they had gone to his boardinghouse only to be informed that he vanished into thin air just the day before. Ashara could not believe her ears. Yet another piece of this puzzle missing.

"I d'know, milady," said Desmond as he rubbed the back of his neck. "The innkeep says he went out at midday and never came back for the evening meal. Says he'd left all his things in his room but didn't pay in advance.?\"

"And he didn't say where he was going when he left?" Ned asked.

"Mayhaps he did, milord. The innkeep never paid no mind. Too many guests stayin' to keep track."

"And you've searched in the area?" asked Ashara. "Brothels and other taverns? Fighting dens? Gambling shops? Did he not have friends whose company he kept?"

"No company we could find in the boardinghouse, milady. And we asked 'round, but the only one who'd seen him yesterday was a shopkeep who sold him a lady's trinket."

Ashara exchanged a look with Ned. Littlefinger had told them that this Ser Hugh had no one in King's Landing and only an old mother in the Vale. Perhaps it had been a gift for her. Or perhaps it had been a gift for a sweetheart or a whore. Regardless, it was clear that he had not intended to disappear that day.

Ned sighed. "Keep looking then," he told the two guards. As he shut the door, he turned back to Ashara..

"So then. Now what?"

Back at Winterfell and along the King's Road, when they had lain in bed and whispered their plans for finding Jon Arryn's murderer, Ashara had imagined the feat to be simple enough. She was most convinced that he had been poisoned, and as Lady Arryn was so certain it was the Lannisters, her and Ned's task would naturally be to find proof and motive of Lannister guilt.

And yet their ill luck began the moment they set foot in the city, for they soon learned that Lysa Arryn had packed up her entire household—many of whom had been taken on in King's Landing—back to the Vale by the time they arrived. Ned had sent her a raven, but it had garnered no reply.

Ashara did not know why Lady Arryn had so forcefully tasked Ser Brynden with carrying her message of Lannister murder to Ned if she did not intend to help continue their investigations.

Yet continue they must, and so she and Ned had gone to Pycelle to inquire about Lord Arryn's last days. That visit had elicited more questions and frustration than it had been worth. Knowing what she did about the Tears of Lys, everything about Pycelle's words and demeanour had screamed his guilt.

The Grand Maester had hemmed and hawed when Ned had asked about poison. Add to this his obvious prevention of any chance Jon Arryn had of recovery by sending his maester away—not to mention his well-known toadying to Tywin Lannister—and it was clear that, had the Lannisters wished Jon Arryn dead, Pycelle was the clear choice for assassin.

And that was the reason Ashara had concluded that Pycelle could not have administered the poison—not directly. They could not discount that Tywin Lannister had simply become careless with age, but Ashara had had the distinct impression that, should they investigate further in Pycelle, all that would emerge was smoke and hearsay. The Lannisters would surely not leave such an obvious loose end to his own devices, free to roam about the castle and provide damning information to the Hand.

Pycelle had promised to deliver them the book that Jon Arryn had been reading when he died. Then, some days later, he had sent an apprentice to apologise, for the tome had disappeared into thin air. Why mention such a book if he'd had no intention of delivering it to Ned?

No, Pycelle did not truly know what the Lannisters had planned if it really were the Lannisters who'd poisoned Lord Arryn. There was another force behind Pycelle's bumbling, blatant appearance of guilt, and it appeared that she and Ned were still at the same place whence they'd started this inquiry.

Ashara had been pacing Ned's solar, detailing for him her reasoning about Pycelle, when they had been interrupted by the announcement that Petyr Baelish was asking for an audience.

It had been a shock, this appearance. Ashara did not think that a man who had once fought a childish duel for Catelyn Tully's hand would be inclined to provide any assistance to the man his beloved had eventually married. And, if she was being honest, a petty man might even blame Ned for her death, (though she had kept that particular thought to herself.) Given Littlefinger's comments during that first council meeting, Ashara was willing to wager that he was, indeed, a petty man.

"Why, Lord Stark," he'd said when Ned had asked his business. "I am here to offer my humble assistance in your investigations. They say in the south that you Starks are all made of ice. Evidence has shown that you melt when you ride south of the Neck."

Ashara had been tempted to strike him, and Ned had looked as if he would call Tomard back in and throw the man bodily from the Tower of the Hand. What was he playing at, coming out of the blue to prod at Ned's scars from the war?

"Careful, Lord Baelish," Ashara had ground out, feeling her cheeks flush with indignant anger.

"Even down south, I believe my goodbrother once managed to present you with a permanent token of his esteem."

Something jagged had flashed in his eyes, but his smirk was light and sharp, and Ashara realised too late that he could say worse things than what had already left his mouth.

"Ah, Lady Stark. I see Lord Brandon told you all about his exploits. I'm not surprised. 'Tis said you knew him well at Harrenhal."

In a blink Ned had Littlefinger pushed into the wall, his dagger at the man's throat.

"I have little patience for these word games and even less for your insults, Baelish."

It took her a moment to gather her wits, fried as they were by the anger licking at her throat.

"Ned."

It would not do to murder the master of coin in the Hand's solar, no matter how much Ashara wished to cut his tongue out with her own blades tucked in her sleeve.

Ned relaxed slightly and lowered his blade, though he left it unsheathed.

"Let me ask you again, Baelish. What do you want?"

The little man coughed and glared.

"As I said, I had intended to offer you my assistance, but I see now that you do not require it."

Ned's eyes had narrowed, and something flickered in Ashara's mind. Before Ned could answer, she spoke.

"Really, Lord Baelish? You see, we were under the impression that you had come to offer insults. 'Tis all you have given thus far."

It would do no harm to hear what the man had to say. If he truly wished to provide help from the goodness of his heart, he would not have begun with his insults. No, this man wanted something, and this assistance was his means to an end. It did not matter, then, that Ned might have offended him with his blade.

Sure enough, the smirk was back on Littlefinger's face.

"Insults, observations. The line is a fine one, Lady Stark, but I did truly wish to offer my assistance."

"Why should you want to help at all?" Ned had asked, still glowering. Littlefinger had given them both long glances, and Ashara could almost hear him weighing his words as a wily merchant weighed his coins.

"Truth be told…my conscience dictates that I try to find out the truth behind Jon Arryn's death. All that I am, I owe to Jon Arryn, ever since I was a boy. Perhaps you know this. Then, of course, there is Lady Arryn, who is like…who is like mine own sister, as Lady Catelyn was. She believes it was murder. Poison. I am obliged to find out the truth."

Littlefinger had spoken his piece then, laying before them those he had located who were formerly of Lord Arryn's household. When he had left, Ashara and Ned had determined that, though his motives seemed suspect and his hostility evident, he could prove to be of use. Thus far, they had only trusted Dyanna and Aron with the information that Lord Arryn had likely been poisoned, but they'd had little interaction with the Hand, and could tell Ashara nothing.

Littlefinger's self-declared motivations seemed reasonable enough, and he seemed genuinely forthright with all that he knew. In the end, they decided it could not hurt to question those servants he had found.

And so they had, though there was very little information that had proven helpful in the slightest. In the end, aside from a strange discrepancy in whether Lord Arryn had intended to foster Robert Arryn at Casterly Rock or Dragonstone, the only leads they found were Lord Arryn's sudden closeness with Stannis Baratheon and their strange and shocking rides through the city.

They had been hoping that Ser Hugh, who had once been Lord Arryn's squire, would provide more information, but as it turned out, the man had let his recent knighthood inflate his head. He would not come back to the Red Keep with Jory—not without an official decree from the Hand, he had retorted—and so Ned had hastily applied his seal to parchment and written a summons.

Now it seemed, in just a day's time, that Ser Hugh had disappeared into thin air along with the tome Pycelle had promised Ned.

"What now?" Ned asked again, dropping into a chair and pinching the bridge of his nose. Sweat was beading on his forehead, and Ashara blotted it with her handkerchief before sinking into the chair beside him. Her own head was starting to ache even as a thrill of foreboding crept down her back.

"Grown men do not disappear like this," she said, chewing at her lip. "First Pycelle's book, then Ser Hugh…whoever it is behind this murder has been trying to derail us before we can even start, it seems."

"It appears to me more and more that it could have been none but the Lannisters," Ned said, his voice low. Ashara had not wished to worry him unnecessarily with warnings of the walls themselves seeming to have ears, but Ned was no fool. Even surrounded only by their own household, all brought from Winterfell, it was best to be careful.

"I agree," she sighed, though they still had no real motive save Lysa Arryn’s tenuous accusation. "They certainly have the men and power to take a man off the streets in broad daylight and silence any witnesses."

"Gods, do you think our looking into him will get this boy killed?"

Ashara pursed her lips.

"I won't pretend not to think Ser Hugh in danger, but besides sending men to keep looking, I don't know what else there is to do."

The grooves were deep between Ned's brows, and Ashara reached out to smooth them with her thumb.

"Enough of this for today. You should go to the armourer on the morrow, but think of something else for today. Surely there is always more business in governing the realm."

Ned gave a humourless laugh.

"Others take Robert. This bloody tourney is going to cost the realm thousands of gold dragons that it does not have, and he insists on holding it in my name."

"Ned…"

He heaved a burdened sigh.

"I know, I know, but even if those words got back to him, it's no worse than what I said to his face when we argued over this. Gods be good, I'd forgotten what a stubborn ox he could be. All reason escapes him when he digs in his heels."

"At the very least you managed to lower the winnings," Ashara mused, thinking that perhaps this was a sign Robert might yet make more than a farce of his reign with Ned around.

She could only hope. She'd had a cursory look at some of the accounts Ned had procured from Littlefinger, and though she could not understand most of it without her head pounding, she could see enough to know that, should the Lannisters and the Iron Bank call in their debts, it would be a matter settled with not just gold, but blood too.

Yet, she and Ned both agreed that their most pressing matter was to find this snake that slept in Robert's bed. If it truly was the Lannisters, then proof must be found, though Ashara could not help the unwelcome inkling unfurling in her stomach that too much evidence pointed all in one direction.

She felt her head spin. Her mind liked to weave and unravel words and schemes, but never before had she felt the foreboding of a web she could not see closing in on herself. It was as if she and Ned stood in the only beam of light, and all around them was black shadow. It made her uneasy.

She rose then, smoothing her skirts. Ned looked up in question, and she gave him a half-smile.

"Well, someone has to determine the brothels Lord Arryn and Stannis were visiting. It would hardly look right for honourable Ned Stark to be frequenting brothels with his lady wife present in the city."

Ned's jaw went slack.

"So you are going instead? And that's supposed to look better, is it?"

Ashara shrugged.

"I am Dornish. People already say worse things." Littlefinger's jibe from days ago still rankled them both, though neither had spoken of it.

"And besides, back when Elia first married Rhaegar, we would visit brothels and orphanages and provide the women and babes with extra coin. I will simply tell any nosy enough to ask that this is what I am doing now."

Ned did not look pleased, but then, he had never wished to know too much about how Ashara had been receiving information on King's Landing these many years past. She gave him a patient smile.

"You needn't worry. I am not going to go knocking on every whorehouse like some drunken sailor. I have a good friend who is the proprietor of her own establishment. She has provided me with much information these years past, and I am certain—"

For the third time that day Ashara was interrupted by a pounding on the door.

"Milord, milady, there is urgent news! A raven from Winterfell!"

At once they were both on their feet, Ned yanking the door open as Jaks once again tumbled in. Something was wrong—it had to be. Robb had just written not a sennight past with troubling news about the Sheepshead poachers, and with all that had been happening in the capital, they had yet to determine the best course of action to bring the Boltons and Hornwoods to task.

Now, for Robb to write again…could there be a worsening development with the trouble?

Ned was already breaking the seal as he strode to the window. He unfurled the parchment, and Ashara approached to read over his shoulder. Her eyes skimmed to the first paragraph and her breath caught in her throat.

_Sam has returned from Horn Hill, but he has somehow gotten it in his head that he is joining the Night's Watch. The Night's Watch, Father! We all fear he is going mad. Jon, Theon and I spent all of the previous evening convincing him to reconsider, but he insists he has made up his mind, and it is not as if we can lock him in his chambers._

_He has left Winterfell with the recruiting party from the Reach this morning. Jon and Theon have travelled with him. It is our hope that they are able to talk sense into him on the ride up to the Wall._

_None of us have any inkling what to do. Please, Father, find a way to stop him. Can you write to the Lord Commander? Can you write to Sam's father? ~~He—I fear—It is only that—~~ We all know how he will fare if he were to join the Night's Watch. I don't understand what has gotten into him. Father, please. You must do something, and quick. Are we truly to watch Sam throw his life into the wind?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sigh. Another slower chapter. Sorry guys, but things have to be explained and recounted so we're all aware what Ned and Ash know and what they're thinking about all this. Please note the slight changes from canon :) 
> 
> Also, if anyone tells me that Ned and Ash should already be suspicious of Littlefinger poisoning Jon Arryn…I will be very disappointed in you and ignore you completely. They're not us the reader, okay? What motivation could either of them possibly think of for LF wanting Jon Arryn dead? 
> 
> If you've gone to an all-girls highschool, I think you'll recognise some of Ashara and Dyanna's behaviour. Ah, nostalgia.


End file.
